


The Sailor

by Vale11



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Insecure Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, a bit of smut, a fuckload of oneshots, but nothing much, no beta we die like billy, so much fluff it'll drown you all, sometimes, there's some blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2020-10-29 12:40:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 44,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20796779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vale11/pseuds/Vale11
Summary: "Are you sure you're alright, dear?""Of course, angel. I always am."A bunch of oneshots. And have mercy, I'm Italian.





	1. The Sailor

I was your sailor, your demon, your lover, your overbearing  
Best friend hoping for some attention  
I saw through your automatic heartache, and now I know  
That love is as love was, it's downhill from here  
Autoheart - The Sailor

It began with water, actually. No, no Great Flood, no oceans or seas, just a mere, innocent glass of water. You see, Crowley was a huge estimator of wine, scotch, whisky and tea and, as soon as those things were invented, he didn’t see why he should have kept on drinking something so tasteless with so many better options around.  
So, yes: it began with a glass of water and a Very Perplexed angel, and a question.  
“Uhm. Angel. Could I have some water?”  
No wine, no brandy, no tea: Crowley asking for boring, plain water was worring, and Aziraphale thought that it would have happened when...well, when Hell froze over, actually, which was totally out of question.  
London, on the other end, was something else entireli and, yes, it was actually half frozen and half encapsulated in fluffy, white snow. Oh, don’t make me start on Aziraphale and his love for snow: of all Her creations, he reputed it on of the best. Everything looked new, under the snow. Less harsh, less real, more ethereal and tender. A brand new world carved out of ice. And the thought that there were no identical snowflakes was enough to make the angel smile for hours, looking at them as they fell. Such small things, such great wonders.  
But, alas, we’re not here to talk about snow and a certain happy angel or, to be more precise, not just about them. We were talking about water, and Very Strange Request a demon had just made: let not the weather distract you, beutiful as it may be.   
The day had been quite normal until that moment, just your typical post not Apocalypse Friday: Aziraphale had spent most part of it on his couch, a neverending tea always at the ready, and Crowley had spent it on his angel, head on his lap, napping and watching him read. Maybe more silent than usual, thinking about it. All was well and quiet, until that dreadful question:  
“Uhm. Angel. Could I have some water?”  
Aziraphale had miracled a glass out of thin air, just to spite Gabrielhis fixation with frivolous miracles, and had smiled down at Crowley’s red hair, currenty on his lap. That’s what he did, until he registered the question.  
“Are you alright, darling?”  
He asked, glass still flying in front of a Very Embarassed demon’s eyes. Crowley’s answer was just a rising red eyebrow, slitted pupils lookinfg at the water.  
“I’m fine, angel”  
“You look pale”  
Crowley tsked, sitting up and reaching for the levitating glass, drinking it in one big gulp and vanishing it with a snap of his fingers.   
“Well” He said with a smirk “It’s just part of my charm”.  
Aziraphale didn’t grace him with an answer, rolling his eyes and letting hi, reclaim his rightful place on his lap, manicured nails scraping his scalp.  
Oh, Crowley loved when Aziraphale did that: it was relaxing, and intimate. He felt cared for. He felt at home.   
And, honestly, it did wonders for the headache that was beginning to form behind his eyes. He felt a tickle in his throat and tried to squash it, but to no avail.  
He coughed.   
Aziraphale’s fingers stilled, and that’s where a Very Perplexed Angel entered our story.  
“Are you sure you’re alright, dearest?”  
“I’m fine, angel. I’m always fine”  
No, you’re not, Aziraphale would have liked to say. I saw you cry, in that pub, just before the end of everything. I saw you get hurt to save me, back in 1941, Crowley. I saw you so desperate for the people that the Gread Flood would kill. You’re not always fine, you’re just good at pretending. This is what Aziraphale would have wanted to say, but he said nothing, letting his fingers find Crowley’s forehead.   
Now, he was no expert on demons phisiology, but Crowley felt cold, too cold even for his standards.  
“Oh, my dear. You should have told me that the cold was affecting you so badly”  
“Ngk. I don’t know what you’re talking about”  
“Of course, darling. Of course”  
Crowley kept silent, headache growing behind closed eyelids, and decided that the room was too bright for his likings. But, oh. A small demonic miracle of his own sounded so tiresome, and Aziraphale was so warm: the best thing to do was surely roll over and hid his eyes his angel’s sweater so, of course, that’s what he chose to do, earning a contented sigh from the principality.  
Of course, Crowley knew that Aziraphale was so much more powerful than he let on. Come on, one doesn’t get to guard the Eastern Gate of the Garden of Eden just like that, you have to be strong as fuck for that.  
Strong, and compassionate: the whole flaming sword thing was all about compassion, right?   
“That’s why he didn’t fall” Thought Crowley “That’s why he’ll never fall. Because Aziraphale is the pillar that keeps Heaven going, the only reason there’s still something good up there”.  
And Crowley didn’t think that She would be keen on renouncing him so easily.   
Crowley was so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t notice the heavy quilt draped around his shoulders, nor the warm tea ready for him on the small wooden table that Aziraphale kept in front of his couch. The fact was that Crowley didn’t want him to fall, he had never wanted to, not even on the beginning of time, not once in 6000 years, not ever.   
He loved him too much to want him to go through all that pain, all that heartache, that overpowering sense of loss and loneliness, and this is what he was thinking about, and he was thinking so hard that no, he didn’t notice the quilt, or the tea, but the arm that snaked around his shoulders oh, that he felt so clearly that he flinched.  
“Shh, sweetheart. It’s ok. It’s just me, darling, just me”  
Crowley felt it all, then: the quilt, the smell of the flower scented tea ad the warmth. Oh, the warmth felt so good.  
He ended up circling the angel’s waist with slim arms, goosebumps rising on his exposed skin, smiling when Aziraphale’s hand started drawing circles oh his back.   
Safe, that’s how he felt. Safe and warm, and all the chill in the world had nothing on that.


	2. Stardust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's pulling me apart a little piece by piece  
Paradox and loss are knocking me off my feet  
And there's a flood that's coming up to my bed  
It's a lose-lose world and I can't stomach it
> 
> IAMX - Stardust

If you asked Crowley, TV was one of humanity’s best inventions: he’d never call them creations, creating stuff was Her thing, and he could be fallen, but he still respected that. In his own way.  
TV saved him from boredom, movies told him stories and, since Netflix and stuff like that had appeared he felt like Christmas had arrived much earlier that year. You see, he loved a good book, but his eyes didn’t: it was a snakeish thing, he supposed, but words tended to turn into a jumbled mess in front of him, and he wasn’t sure it was worthy the debilitating headaches he got when he tried.  
There were a few authors, out there, that were worth the effort: Terry Pratchet and Douglas Adams were always fun to read, he admired the raw reality that Irvine Welsh was capable to put in every word he wrote, he adored Stephen King ad an Italian guy called Stefano Benni, and there was this young fellow, this Neil Gaiman, that was really talented. Them, he recognised the power of creation to. But the headaches were awful anyway, so TV it was if he had the choice.  
Since he had moved in with his angel in the apartment right above the bookshop, a TV had miraculously appeared in the living room, and even Aziraphale sometimes succumbed to the wonders of a couple of National Geographic documentaries.  
“Oh, dear. Those antelope pups look so cute, and...oh. The lion’s got them. Shoot.”  
Honestly? It was hilarious.  
So, when they noticed the appearing of a new series of documentaries on Netflix homepage, where Morgan Freeman narrated the mysteries of the universe (mysteries. Pffft), Crowley couldn’t resist because first: space, second: Morgan Freeman. When Aziraphale told him he had no idea who Morgan Freeman was, Crowley looked at him as if he had sprouted a second head. No way, there was no way now that he would let his angel keep on living without knowing the absolute marvels of Morgan Freeman’s acting. The man had even played God in a movie with Jim Carrey, for fuck sake! And yes, it was totally inaccurate, but he would have much prefered a guy like that to...come on, at least he answered the questions people asked him, not like...no. Nope. No. Don’t go there.  
It backfired, obviously.  
He should have known. Mysteries of the universe? More like “Let’s talk about stars, shall we?”

Crowley, sprawled like always on his angel’s lap, grew more and more quiet while Morgan Freeman‘ s voice kept on explaining the sheer beauty of nebulae, black holes and galaxies. Aziraphale was so enamoured with the movie that at first he didn’t notice, but it was hard not to when your beloved's breathing started to get frantic, eyes wide and distant, body frozen into place. He manifested his wings, cocooning the demon in white feathers, and pried the remote from his fingers.  
“I don’t know why you insisted so much on watching this, dear. It’s awfully boring” He lied, keeping an eye on Crowley the whole time “We could watch something more entertaining, right?”  
Crowley just shrugged, teeth clenched and if his eyes looked moist Aziraphale said nothing, selecting the first thing that Netflix suggested him to watch. The demon seemed to unfreeze at that.  
“Uh, angel. This is Marianne. You hate horror stuff”  
“Nonsense, dear” Was the answer “ I’ve heard wonders about this”  
Crowley’s eyes travelled upwards, meeting Aziraphale’s beatific smile.  
“You bloody liar, you”  
Aziraphale just smiled again, drawing circles on his slowly relaxing back. All it took was the first twenty minutes of the show for Aziraphale to reach for the remote again, hastily trying to find something else to watch.  
“Hum. Yes. Too strong for me, I fear. Real pity, the actors were really good...oh. There. This looks interesting”  
Crowley suppressed a laugh while Aziraphale relaxed, watching something about thai street food.  
-  
When Crowley woke up the angel was nowhere in sight: the place was quiet, and even Soho traffic seemed to have relented. The first thing he felt like doing, trying to banish sleep from his eyes with the heels of his hands, was watch that stars stuff again but something his angel had told him once made him stop.  
“You’re hurting yourself, dear. It’s not worth it, nothing is”  
So, ok: no documentaries about stars for the moment, but he still missed them terribly: it was a neverending ache in the pit of his stomach, something he could see but kept its distance, forever forbidden to its own creator. He remembered them all: their names, their colors, how they felt between his fingers, how he really felt when he realized that he could build something so beautiful. He dried his face in a haste and put his glasses on when he heard the shop door open, and his angel steps on the stairs.  
“Oh, there you are, dear” Aziraphale beamed when he found him awake, but his smile dimmed when he took notice of the redness around his eyes. He put down the paper bag he was holding and crouched in front of him, hands reaching for his sunglasses.  
“What’s wrong, Crowley?”  
The demon watched as deft fingers folded his glasses and put them down safely. He had no right answer for the angel.  
“’m fine” He managed to mumble, and was soon enveloped in a soft hug, face hidden in Aziraphale’s shoulder.  
“Was it what we saw, the stars?” The angel asked, and Crowley shrugged. He felt a kiss on his right temple “You did an amazing job with them, love”  
“Ngk”  
Crowley grunted, trying to disentangle himself and reaching for the safety of his sunglasses again.  
“Did I, now?”  
“Absolutely”  
Aziraphale smiled and kissed him, then miracled his favourite blanket and stood up.  
“Why don’t you rest some more, dear? I’ve got something to take care of, and you look tired”  
“You sure you need no help, angel?”  
Aziraphale recovered his paper bag and kissed him again.  
“Rest, love”  
-  
Awake again, Crowley opened his eyes to total darkness. Now, you don’t have to think that he didn’t like it, , in fact he found it soothing, and his eyes granted him an excellent night vision but, nevertheless, it was pretty strange: his angel loved light, had even miracled some windows on the ceiling and a rooftop garden for Crowley’s plants and sunbathing.  
What the heck was going on, then?  
He must have made some noise, because all of a sudden there was a hand on his arm, soothing him, inviting him to lie down on the couch.  
“Just a moment, darling. I think I’ve got this”  
And, just like that, the dark room was filled with stars. They spanned from the walls to the ceiling, covering the furniture and his angel’s face, making him look as if he himself was made of stardust.  
Crowley inhaled sharply, surrounded by the night sky. He had stars on his hands. Aziraphale had given them back to him.  
“Oh” He heard him say “Looks like it’s working. I wasn’t sure I would be able to assemble it correctly”  
“You” Crowley croaked “You made this?”  
Aziraphale smile was star filled, and the angel let himself sit against the couch, looking at the ceiling.  
“It wasn’t so hard, they sell it as an assembling kit for children, you know”  
“Sure”  
Crowley couldn’t stop looking at his hands, stars dancing on every finger. He flexed them, noticing how the small pinpoints of light would move with them, and then Aziraphale’s fingers were there, intertwined with his own, and he couldn’t do it anymore. It felt so strange: so sad, and so beautiful, and before he knew what was happening he was shaking apart in his angel’s arms.  
“You deserve to stay close to the stars, dear” Aziraphale said “They had no right to take you away from them”  
Crowley let out a wet laugh.  
“Careful, angel. That’s a dangerous way of thinking”  
“Maybe, but it’s true. And you look so beautiful with stars on your skin, love”.


	3. Turn Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is the author projecting those feelings on our favourite demon? You bet.

In the dead of the night I start to lose control  
But I still carry the weight like I've always done before  
It gets so heavy at times but what more can I do  
I got to stay on track just like pops told me to

I really don't think you know  
There could be hell below, below  
I really do hope you know  
There could be hell below, below  
Turn Blue - The Black Keys

\---

He felt like a pendulum: when the angel was with him he wanted to be alone, when he was alone he felt like loneliness was crushing him, squeezing all the hair he breathed from his lungs, making his mind spiral down with heavy thoughts.  
He wasn’t happy, but that was a given. No demon was happy beside Hastur, but Hastur was happy because he was an idiot, and everybody knew that only stupid people could be really happy. Ignorance was a blessing, in its own way.  
He should have asked for help, sure, but who could have he gone to? Just try to imagine Crowley going downstairs and ask Beelzebub for some therapy. No. Way. And, no, he wasn’t going to ask Aziraphale because he didn’t want him to worry, to see him as he really was: something so damaged that not even the love of an angel could help to put back together.  
He screamed to his plants, now: he didn’t just reprimand them, he screamed at them and, more than once, he had found himself curled up on the pavement of his domestic jungle, green leaves outstretched to reach his prone, trembling form. He had reached the point where his plants were trying to comfort him, such a sorry excuse for a demon he was.  
The problem was that he couldn’t even put what he felt into words: he felt sad, but sad didn’t really cut it, it was not enough. He was scared, angry, anxious, worried. He was a mess, and sometimes his throat felt so tight that he didn’t even recognize his own voice when he spoke, and he was left asking himself how could Aziraphale not notice the two invisible hands that were slowly clenching around his neck. There was always a strange weight on his chest, something no big gulp of air could banish, and no hug could vanish: he was left with an even more crushing weight, actually, and he couldn’t explain that to himself. But, most of all, he couldn’t understand if he had the right to feel like that: were those feelings even real if they didn’t even make sense? Was his personality even real, since it was based on those feelings? And if demons weren’t built to feel like that, what did it make him? What was even he, A. J. Crowley? Not an angel, surely, but it looked like he was too damaged to be a demon too. No way he would ever ask Aziraphale for help, no way he would burden his angel with all that mess.  
So he wore his smile like a well known shirt, put on his best clothes and bore it because, if he couldn’t do it, he would fake it. Sure as fucking hell.  
-  
He was trying, he was trying so hard, but it was exhausting. It had been more than a week since the last time he had accepted an invite from Aziraphale, and he really couldn’t fake it anymore. The last date had been half a disaster, even if Aziraphale had smiled to him the whole time. He was avoiding his angel, and Aziraphale had noticed: he was gentle, not stupid, and Crowley knew that he was hurting him. And it made him feel even worse.  
Aziraphale had been trying to coax him out of the shop for the last two hours, talking about the sun, lunch, parks and such, but Crowley couldn’t really follow him. There was nothing capable of making him feel interested and, if you’d have asked him, he wouldn’t have been able to tell you what he felt like doing, where he felt like going. Numb, that’s what he was. Numb, and it hurt, and he didn’t know how to stop it, nor how to make the angel understand that it wasn’t him: Aziraphale was the only good thing he had, but he just didn’t know how to make him understand. How could he say something that even his mind wasn’t able to put into words? So, he just kept silent. And silent. And silent. He just nodded when Aziraphale asked him to accompany him to their park, hair longer then ever falling on his face.  
The angel had tears in his eyes.  
-  
He was silent, but that wasn’t so strange. This silence was different, though., like something solid, tangible, that no amount of questions could break. It nearly felt like some invisible muzzle had secured itself around his demon’s mouth, leaving him mute and resigned. Taking away his voice and leaving behind just the light line of slightly downturned lips. They had been sitting at that table for half an hour, and Crowley had barely sipped his wine.  
“My dear, is something the matter?”  
He tried again, this time clasping his fingers around the demon’s only to see him retract his hand as if burned. It hurt, there was no way to hide it, but Crowley looked expressionless as ever, dark lenses covering yellow eyes. Aziraphale swallowed, retracting his hand, letting his gaze fall on his plate.  
“Do you...” He started. He didn’t want to ask, didn’t want to know the answer “Do you want me to leave?” he managed to say, and Crowley’s eyes moved behind his glasses. He saw the demon’s jaw work, his throat convulse, and then Crowley exhaled a “No” so soft that the angel thought he had imagined it.  
“Are you sure?” He asked again, and Crowley shook his head, sending red locks flying all around.  
“No angel, please. I’m sorry. Don’t” Crowley chocked on his words, frantic “Please, don’t leave. Please”  
“Oh dear God”  
Aziraphale took in the sight of the shaking demon across the table and reached for him, miracling them both back to the shop.  
-  
They had barely reappeared in their flat above the shop when Crowley’s knees gave out, forcing the angel to carry him to their bed.  
“Crowley, work with me here” He asked, both hands on the demon's knees, fingers digging in the muscle, but Crowley’s breathing kept on itch, fear pouring out of him like pitch.  
“What can I do, sweetheart?”  
“Don’t leave, angel” Crowley folded with serpentine grace, forehead pressed against his angel’s hands, trapping them against his legs “Don’t leave, please. Don’t leave”  
“I’m not, Crowley, I swear I’m not going anywhere, but you have to tall me what’s wrong”  
Aziraphale tried to make him lift his head, but didn’t feel like forcing him. In the end he adjusted against the demon’s legs, kissing his head.  
“What’ going on, dearest? Can you tell me what’s going on?”  
Crowley jumped up, back straight and flush against the cushions: “I don’t know” He muttered “I don’t know, angel. I...I have...there’s this...” He took a big gulp of air, looking at the angel perched on his knees, and shook his head “I can’t...but it’s not you, angel. Not you. Never you”  
Aziraphale reached out for him, and Crowley crumbled against his chest.  
“I’m sorry, angel. I’m such a mess”  
“Nothing to be sorry for, darling”  
“But it’s not you”  
Aziraphale smiled, arms circling Crowley’s back.  
“It’s ok, love. Whenever you feel like this you can come to me. You know that, right?”  
“I know now”  
“Good”  
Crowley left Aziraphale’s arms, bringing the angel up un the bed with him, reclaiming his usual place on his lap.  
“I’m not fine” He started, rolling so that his face was hidden against Aziraphale’s belly “And I don’t know when and if I’ll ever be. But just...”  
Aziraphale felt him tense and buried his fingers in sweaty red hair, letting him take his time.  
“Can you stand it? Being with me while I’m so...” He didn’t end the phrase, wiggling his fingers around.  
Broken. Scattered. Not fucking functional.  
“I just...” He forced himself to go on “I just don’t know how to talk about it, I don’t know how I feel, and when you asked if you should have left I panicked, angel”  
Aziraphale hummed, letting his right hand roam the full length of Crowley’ back.  
“I’m not leaving you, Crowley. Not now, not ever. I will stand by you always, when you feel ok, and when you feel like this. You heard me, sweetheart? Always”  
Aziraphale kissed his temple, and heard him snort.  
“Now you’re just quoting Harry Potter, it’s not fair”  
“Everything’s fair in love and war”  
There was a beat of silence, and then: “You ssssstupid, beautiful idiot”.


	4. Falling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “And I can’t stop thinking about that, and how you must have felt, and how it must still hurt, and that it wasn’t needed. You didn’t have to be thrown out and I’m. So. Pissed.”  
Crowley was speechless: he knew that Aziraphale had some doubts about Heaven, but this was bordering on blasphemy, and it scared him.  
“Aziraphale it’s ok. I’m ok”  
“Thant’s what you keep on saying, Crowley, but I don’t think you were ok back then, and, honestly? You don’t look ok even now”  
\---  
Philosophy ensued.

I've fallen out of favor and I've fallen from grace  
Fallen out of trees and I've fallen on my face  
Fallen out of taxis, out of windows too  
Fell in your opinion when I fell in love with you

Sometimes I wish for falling, wish for the release  
Wish for falling through the air to give me some relief  
Because falling's not the problem, when I'm falling I'm at peace  
It's only when I hit the ground it causes all the grief

Falling - Florence and the Machine

You should know this: there are very few statues of the devil around, and each one of them tries to represent him as he was, but they all fail. Crowley knows that because he knows the guy and, first: no long hair. Really, he was one of the few angels, up there, that kept them short. Second: he had a beard. Third: he wasn’t blonde, and of course now he was thinking about paintings, not statues. He really couldn’t understand why, for the artists of the past, blonde meant beautiful. Lucifer’s hair were black as fuck, and, hello? He was Heaven’s most beautiful angel and not even the Fall had tarnished his beauty, even if his demonic form was pretty scary. Thinking about it, the only blond demon he knew was Hastur and ugh, not really his type. Moreover, he was a redhead and dashing as hell, thank you very much.  
Now, Aziraphale was something else entirely: he was an angel, so the whole blonde thing didn’t apply and, anyway, his hair were more white than blonde. Crowley had nothing against blonde people, it was just the constant association of blonde and fair with absolute beauty that pissed him off.  
“I still don’t get why we needed to embark in this trip, angel. It’s ridiculous.”  
Aziraphale snorted, munching on a sandwich with jamon iberico that he had bought in a street food market there, in Madrid.  
“Pure curiosity” He answered, brushing crumbs away from his jacket “I just wanted to see this Falling Angel fountain here, in the Retiro park”.  
“Ngk. And did we really had to go to Liegi too?”  
“Oh, yes dear, we had to: Le gènie du mal is an exquisite work of art, and the cathedral is a masterpiece of Gothic architecture. It’s a shame you couldn’t get inside"  
“Nah, once has been enough”  
Aziraphale finished his sandwich, looking at the fountain in front of them: it had been built at 666 metres above the sea level, and people had elaborated any sort of theories but, really? It was quite normal, since the whole city had been built at that height, more or less, but humans loved speculations.  
“He looks so sad, doesn't’ he?”  
He did, indeed: Lucifer was eternally falling in that statue, a snake around his ankles, hairs fluttering around his face and Aziraphale knew the real hair colour of the first of the Fallen, but he couldn’t help but imagine a crown of red, flaming hair, a halo of fire, and green eyes turning golden.  
“Oh my dear” He exhaled without even paying mind to it “It must have been excruciating”.  
Crowley felt insecure for a minute, before clearing his throat.  
“Uhm, angel. Are you talking about him or me, here?”  
“Hm? Oh, I was just thinking out loud, love”  
“Ssssssure”  
The demon peered at him from above his glasses, but was soon distracted by Aziraphale’s voice, hesitant.  
“Was it, anyway?”  
Crowley looked at the statue again, hearing the wind as it screamed in his ears, the pain, the burning and the smell. Oh, the smell: sulphur, burning flesh, singed feathers. It still made him gag.  
He shrugged.  
“It was ages ago”  
“But was it?”  
Aziraphale was looking at him now, blue eyes unreadable and fixed into his. It wasn’t like him to insist like that, but it hadn’t been the first time he tried to learn how the Fall had happened. Crowley hung his head, hands in his pockets, and breathed once. Twice.  
“It was, angel. I suppose you can imagine”  
Aziraphale nodded, lips in a thin line.  
“I’m so sorry”  
“Not your fault”  
“It was, in a way”  
“No, angel” Crowley shook his head letting a smile play on his lips “It’s all on me”.  
“You shouldn’t have fallen”  
Crowley shook his head again, letting out a full body laugh.  
“Come on, angel. You know me. I might not be the most evil of the lot, but blind faith? That’s not how I work, and you know it”.  
The angel smiled at that, loving every second of Crowley’s laugh.  
“Point taken” He conceded, but his smile died too soon for the demon’s liking “I saw a painting” He said, eyes still on the statue.  
“I bet you saw more than one”  
“It’s The Fallen Angel by Cabanel”  
“Oh. That”  
“It looks so much like you, Crowley”  
“Hm”  
Crowley nodded and took a couple of steps backwards, sitting on an iron bench ad opening his arms, inviting his angel to join him. As soon as Aziraphale was sat Crowley crossed his ankles, long legs stretched out in front of him.  
“It’s not me, angel”  
“I know, Crowley. I know. But just...” Aziraphale looked flustered “His eyes looked so desperate, and his red hair...It hurts too much just thinking about it”  
The angel heard more than saw Crowley exhale, but now that he had started to speak it was impossible to stop.  
“And I can’t stop thinking about that, and how you must have felt, and how it must still hurt, and that it wasn’t needed. You didn’t have to be thrown out and I’m. So. Pissed.”  
Crowley was speechless: he knew that Aziraphale had some doubts about Heaven, but this was bordering on blasphemy, and it scared him.  
“Aziraphale it’s ok. I’m ok”  
“That’s what you keep on saying, Crowley, but I don’t think you were ok back then, and, honestly? You don’t look ok even now”  
Crowley did honour to his demonic heart, managing to look crestfallen just for a few seconds before plastering his trademark grin on his face. On his side, Aziraphale looked both awfully guilty and still pissed.  
“I’m sorry” He said after a short, tense, silence “I went too far”  
Crowley shook his head, grin still in place.  
“It’s ok, angel. I suppose I’m not as good as an actor as I thought I was”  
They both turned their gaze on Lucifer, still falling in front of them.  
“Let me tell you something, angel” Crowley’s back left the bench, elbows on his knees, hands playing with the hem of his dark shirt “The fall was horrible. There was pain, noise, it smelled awful. I didn’t mean to fall, as you know but, honestly? I might do it again given the choice. Heaven is not the right place for me, it’s the right place for an army of obedient soldiers, not for curious guys asking questions around, more interested in the loopholes than the rule itself. I’m made of questions, angel, and I need to ask them if I think that something’s unfair or incomprehensible. That’s how I roll, and that’s what freedom means to me. Hell is...well, it’s hell, and it sucks, but at least no one has nothing against questions down there. And I know that humans depict Lucifer like this to remind themselves of Heaven’s power, but a more accurate representation would be him sitting on a fucking throne, because that’s where he is now. So, in a way, the Fall gave me freedom even if it sucked like, a lot. You don’t have to feel sad on my behalf, angel”  
Aziraphale kept silent, brooding about everything Crowley had just confided him, and the question came naturally.  
“So you think I’m not free?”  
He expected Crowley to say something like “you’re an angel, of course you’re not free”, and it would have hurt, but what he got was just another full body laugh. He quirked an eyebrow.  
“Oh, angel” Crowley managed when the laughing subsided “I’ve got nothing on you. The first thing you did was give humanity your bloody flaming sword and befriend a demon, then you kept on going behind Heaven’s back for all those years and you escaped when you got discorporated. You look pretty free to me”  
“But I didn’t fall”  
“Nah, you’ll never fall” Crowley relaxed on the bench “You’ve got something I don’t have, and I think I never had, You have faith, Aziraphale, and you trust the greater good to win in the end. It’s not about rebellion, it’s about trust. You’ve got hope, and it makes you perfect. To me, at least”  
Aziraphale reached a pretty impressive shade of red at that, smacking the demon on a shoulder and gaining just a snicker for his effort.  
“You tempter”  
“Hello” Crowley pointed at himself “Serpent of Eden, here”  
Aziraphale relaxed then, and looked at Lucifer again.  
“You know, love, I think that this whole let’s make statues that show how the devil is desperate thing backfired. I mean, he’s gorgeous. Cabanel’s painting is gorgeous too” Crowley went deeply red, even more that Aziraphale, and coughed “Anyway, love, this statue was inspired by Milton’s Paradise lost and I think that there is something, there, that might suit what you told me”  
“Oh, yes? And what would it be?”  
The angel smirked, the demon’s neck was still blazing red.  
“Better to reign in Hell than to serve in Heaven”  
Crowley looked at him, eyebrows a lot closer to his hairline, and nodded.  
“I knew that”  
“Of course, love. Of course”.


	5. Sunburn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You know what? Having a literal angel buy sunscreen for you was no use if you didn’t wear it, and Crowley was starting to understand it right then. They had found a wonderful beach in Tarifa, on the ocean and so close to Africa they could clearly see its coasts, and had decided to spend the whole day there, between a “Crowley, did you put some lotion on?” and a “Sure I did, angel”.

We both put our sunblock on  
Laid on the beach and vowed that we'd live and we'd learn  
Yeah, but she got a tan and I got a sunburn  
Owl city - Sunburn

No one noticed because of his fuckload of layers of clothes, but Crowley was way, way, way more pale than Aziraphale. The angel skin had that golden complexion that came with being so close to the Grace of God, with capital G, but Crowley? He was so used to the underworld’s lack of sunlight that he couldn’t sit under its rays without facing a severe sunburn and, thinking about it, maybe he was born that way, with red hair and freckles all over his body. The problem was that he loved sunbathing, being a snake and whatnot, and it had often resulted in red, burning skin. One could think that being a demon would save him from such...inconveniences, but experience had taught him that his human corporation loathed the sun just as much as his little, demonic heart loved it.  
So, when they decided to go on vacation in Andalusia, the south of Spain, a few weeks after the apocanope, it was no wonder that while Crowley busied himself with finding accommodations and threatening his plants not to die while he was away, Aziraphale bought something like five big bottles of sunscreen for his demon. Never too good at taking care of himself, he was.  
-  
“Ow, ow, ow!”  
“Told you so, now don’t move”  
You know what? Having a literal angel buy sunscreen for you was no use if you didn’t wear it, and Crowley was starting to understand it right then. They had found a wonderful beach in Tarifa, on the ocean and so close to Africa they could clearly see its coasts, and had decided to spend the whole day there, between a “Crowley, did you put some lotion on?” and a “Sure I did, angel”. The day had been uneventful and relaxing, and a cool breeze had them forgetting that the sun was still blazing up there, even if they couldn’t really feel it so, while Aziraphale had wisely chosen to sit under the beach umbrella with his book, Crowley had opted for basking in the sun for the whole time.  
And, no. He didn’t wear sunscreen because he was a demon, and demons didn’t need sunscreen. Except one. Obviously.  
So, that same evening, he found himself unable to sit at the nice restaurant Aziraphale had decided to have dinner at because his back and the back of his knees were burning so much that the mere contact with the chair made him feel like crying. Aziraphale thought about letting him suffer for a while because, let’s be honest, he totally deserved it, but the look of pain and utter embarrassment on the demon’s face made him change his mind so much that he cut their dinner short, ending it before dessert, in a hurry to get Crowley to their hotel and ease the pain just a little bit. There wasn’t much he could do for a hard-headed, sunburnt demon, but he could try to do something the human way, at least.  
Which brings us to a half naked Crowley sprawled on his belly on the hotel bed, skin red and teeth gritted, while Aziraphale slathered him in aftersun trying to ease the stiffness he felt every time he moved. The angel had forced him to take a cold shower just a few minutes prior and, to make sure that Crowley wouldn’t turn it warm, he had entered the stall with him. It had made it a bit more bearable, but just so: every drop felt like a needle, and when Aziraphale had washed his back he had had to bit his bottom lip to stop himself from whimpering. The angel had kissed the back of his neck, then, and had started on his hair. That had felt pretty good, actually.  
Back to the present, Aziraphale had him lying down on the bed, exposed back raw and red, and was working the lotion on his skin. Honestly? It hurt like fuck.   
One might think that sunburn is nothing compared to much more serious injuries, but when you’re as white as a sheet and as careless as a certain demon, the consequences might be really bad: he was starting to get a headache from hell, and his body had difficulties to compensate its temperature, between his scorched skin and its natural balance. Aziraphale knew it could easily result in a bad fever and that’s why, after having more or less drowned his demon in aftersun, he had forced him to drink plenty of water and get comfortable on the bed, cranking the AC up and waiting for the worst to happen.  
It did, as you all can imagine.  
Crowley was wrecked with shivers that made him a trembling mess, his internal temperature completely fucked up, suffering from the cold in the sweltering heat of the Spanish summer, and it didn’t matter how close he got to Aziraphale or how many times the angel miracled the cloth on his forehead to keep cool: he still felt like shit, couldn’t sleep and his teeth kept on chattering. Not to speak about his skin, that felt so tight Crowley thought it would split and leave him raw and bloody. Aziraphale kept him close but tried not to touch him too much, letting him choose whether to get skin on skin contact or not: it hurt, and he could clearly see it. In the end, after hours of suffering, he miracled the tub full of tepid water and carried a delirious demon bridal style to the bathroom, getting inside with him and letting him shiver it out even when he started to get a bit more coherent, just as much as he needed to actually beg him to keep him warm.  
“It’s cold, angel. It’s too cold. Why are you keeping me here, whet did I do?”  
It broke Aziraphale’s heart hearing him so desperate, so sure that this had to be some kind of punishment for something he might have done and the thought that Crowley, that always managed to look so cool and collected, had this huge, insecure streak inside of him made his chest hurt even more. He kept him in the slowly cooling water nonetheless, keeping his head wet and whispering sweet reassurances.  
“It’s ok, love, you did nothing wrong. I’m just trying to lower your temperature, that’s all”  
He kept on repeating this mantra every time Crowley whimpered or begged him to let him out until he fell asleep, and Aziraphale was able to gather him in his arms and get him to their bed, keeping an eye on him for hours.  
-  
He felt better when he woke up, and when he saw Aziraphale still asleep next to him he couldn’t help to feel better AND guilty. He got up slowly, trying not to wake him up, and slithered out of the room coming back with the whole Mediterranean breakfast on a tray.  
Aziraphale woke up to the smell of espresso, fresh baked bread with butter and jam, orange juice and pastries, but all he could look at was the demon: he looked better, much better, but was stunningly bicolour. His whole back was still blazing red, bus his front was creamy white with the exception of his face, that bore the silhouette of his sunglasses, tattooed there by the sun. He must have fallen asleep on his belly in the sun, and not moved an inch for the whole day.   
He laughed, he couldn’t help it.   
“Great, he laughs” Crowley grumbled, depositing the tray on the bed “And I even got up and brought him breakfast”.  
Aziraphale smiled knowing too well that this was Crowley’s way of saying both thank you and sorry for the night he made his angel suffer through, and sat up kissing the demon on the mouth.  
“I’m so sorry, love, it’s just that bright pink really isn’t your colour”  
Crowley growled something unintelligible and fell on the bed, careful not to jostle the tray too much, hiding his face against Aziraphale’s thigh.  
“Will you wear sunscreen now, love?” The angel asked, one slice of bread in one hand and the fingers of the other working the knots in the demon’s neck.  
“You bet, angel”

\----

NOOOOOW: just an advice. Shoud you ever come to Italy, or go to Spain or Portugal or the south of France or freaking wherever, WEAR SUNSCREEN. I'm Italian, I live here, and I'm white as a fucking sheet so I have to wear it from late March to the first half of October and sometimes even longer. Wear it, guys, it's dangerous not to.


	6. Prayers for the damned

When I wake up to the sound of demons  
They're always telling me that I'm no good  
And all the angels keep scratching at my door  
I'm doing what I can to fight this anger  
I'm just a product of a living hell  
And I don't wanna live like this no more  
Everything is ruined in my head  
Sometimes I wish I was  
But maybe I'm not alone  
Maybe if you take my hand  
And I reach up to God  
Maybe this time he'll say a prayer for the damned

Sixx A.M. - Prayers for the damned

He dreams of fire. There’s bad fire and good fire, but it’s fire nonetheless. He remembers a guy he once knew, a certain Norse god they called Loki, the Viking version of Prometheus. You know, the guy that gave humans fire? Same thing. He gave fire to the humans and orchestrated Ragnarök. He gave fire to the humans and was the personification of destructive fire himself.  
What, you thought that there’s just one God? Pfffft. All you need to do to make some divinities real is believing in them so, maybe, there are just as many gods as people around. It just happens that a great number of people choose to believe in the same stuff but, really, that’s not what we were talking about.  
Crowley would like to know where that Loki guy was, anyway. He was cool, and pretty smart.  
Anyway.  
Crowley likes sleeping and tonight, just like every other night, he dreams of fire. Sometimes the fire is good and smells like autumn, like fallen leaves and burning wood, like short days and long nights, perfect to tell stories. Other times it’s just a wisp of smoke in the background of the whole dream, something that keeps on reminding him where he comes from without posing any threat. Just there. Just existing. Sometimes he dreams of memories, of Pompeii and Rome, of cooking on a bonfire and falling asleep watching the slowly dying embers in a humid summer night in Scotland, ages ago. His dreams may revolve around a concept, a person, something that happened to him or someone else but in everyone, every single one, there is fire.  
There are nights when the fire is overpowering and burns the dream itself, leaving him gasping for air with smoke in his throat, and scared to death. This is one of those nights.  
-  
Aziraphale doesn’t sleep: it’s not that he doesn’t like it, he just doesn’t need it and likes reading better. Crowley loves it, he knows, and he even tried to take a nap with him once or twice but it just eludes him so, now, he reads by the small lamp he keeps on his desk while Crowley sleeps in their bedroom, the door just slightly open. Aziraphale knows about Crowley’s dreams, even those he refuses to talk about or to call nightmares because “demons don’t get nightmares, angel”, so he prays the demon to keep the door like that when he goes to sleep: he wants to be able to hear it when the bad dreams start. Crowley grumbles, but complies every time.  
That’s how he’s already at his side when he hears the first whimpers, and how he freezes when Crowley cries out his name with such anguish to make him feel physically sick. He’s heard him scream his name in anger, in fear and in pleasure, but never like this. And he wishes he didn’t hear it, because now he fears that his dream self is hurting Crowley, and he can’t bear the thought. He’s still frozen in place when the demon jerks awake, eyes huge and out of breath, hair sticking in all directions and drenched in sweat. And Aziraphale is still frozen when Crowley turns around, sees him and envelops him in a crushing hug before taking his face in both hands. He studies his eyes intently, and Aziraphale is still frozen when Crowley exhales, seemingly relieved by what he sees, and crumples against his sternum. That’s his cue to encircle his back with his arms, letting his hands find his skin under the black shirt and drawing concentric figures with trembling fingers.  
“You’re ok” He hears Crowley say “You’re ok”.  
And of course he’s ok, on the physical plane at least: it’s the first time that Crowley looks so utterly destroyed. He’s seen him vulnerable and sad, but like this? First time ever, and it’s awful. He breaks his own rule to never ask Crowley something about his nightmares and does just that. He asks.  
“Do you want to tell me what your dream was about, love?”  
Crowley shakes his head, letting Aziraphale kiss the mark behind his ear, but there’s something stuck in his throat, and it’s a fear he’s been living with since Eden. It’s something he dreads, and that he feels he would be completely guilty of should it happen.  
“You fell”  
It’s barely a whisper, but his voice cracks on the last letter and he has to cough to get it working again. Once he does, though, he has nothing more to say: those two words represent the worst thing he can imagine, and he can’t add nothing to it. Aziraphale is still holding him, slowly rocking back and forth, and the room in still in the shadow. But now he can see Crowley’s eyes, looking at him from behind red locks, and he can see it clearly, now. He’s terrified.  
“I’m here, love” He says, kissing the demon’s forehead “I’m here, I’m fine. I didn’t fall”  
Crowley keeps silent for a few seconds, looking at him, jaw working, and then he plunges. This is new to him, this openness, and he’s scared shitless. But he needs it, needs the fear, the reassurance, the warmth that comes from Aziraphale’s body.  
“In my dream” He starts, and swallow “In my dream you fell because of me. Because of our...” He makes a strange motion with his index finger, pointing at Aziraphale and then at himself in a nervous loop “Because of our relationship. You fell, and it was my fault, and I don’t want it to happen to you, angel. I don’t”.  
Crowley is hiding his face in the darkness offered by Aziraphale’s chest, now, and all the angel can do is keep on rocking him like he would do with a child, cheek leaning on the demon’s head. One of his hands is still caressing Crowley’s back, the fingers of the other are on his neck, steady and warm.  
“You fell, and your wings were burning just like mine, turning black just like mine, and...”  
Crowley tenses and then chokes when Aziraphale’s wings manifest in all their magnificence, pearly white and pure as ever, and wrap around his back in a protective hug.  
“Love is not a good reason to fall. Love can’t be the reason to be cast out, Crowley”  
Crowley’s head comes up, gaze lost in white feathers, and Aziraphale has the chance to look at him. He seems tired, and his eyes are suspiciously shiny and red. His hair are undone, and his black cotton shirt is ruffled and wet. Still, he’s the most beautiful creature in the whole Creation in Aziraphale’s eyes.  
“I wont’ fall for this” He says, cradling Crowley’s face in both hands “I won’t fall for this, love”.  
He can’t stress it enough, so he opts for kissing his demon, slow and sweet, moving his thumb to caress his cheekbone when he starts shaking again. He drops his forehead against Crowley’s and breathes deeply, daring Her to punish him for loving the beautiful, brave, scared being he holds in his arms. He counts to ten. Nothing happens. He feels so galvanized he starts to hum a song that Crowley often sings while cooking, after that little act of defiance.  
After a few seconds Crowley perks up and looks at him with a raised eyebrow, and Aziraphale is so relieved to see him look at least a bit more like himself he could cry.  
“Really, angel?”  
“What, I quite like bebop”  
“Oh, my” Crowley lets his head fall against Aziraphale’s sternum with a thud “Ngk. This is not bebop. And it’s not a funny song, angel”  
“Don’t care. You like it. It calms you down”.  
Crowley keeps silent, eyes closed, while Aziraphale hums and rocks him back and forth. Back and forth. Back. And forth. 

-

Now, in my head Aziraphale is singing the Sixx A.M. song, but you're free to think about any other thing you can imagine. Even better, you can write it in the comments, so I can listen to it aaaaaand make a cute, nice, accurate playlist, maybe?


	7. Sacred ground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluff. Fluffy fluff. And plants.

There is no light where I come from  
When you're around  
I feel like I'm on a sacred ground  
Richie Kotzen - Sacred ground

Crowley is, in Aziraphale’s modest opinion, the most beautiful creature on Earth. If you’re just a bit familiar with the complementary colours theory you will know that red and green are a match made in Heaven, so you can imagine how intrigued the angel is every time that Crowley ventures into his own domestic jungle, his red hair crowned by green, luscious foliage. How to amplify this, how to make Crowley happier? Two words.   
Botanical. Garden.  
He wants it to be a surprise, so he starts researching with his books and a wondrous thing called Google for the most beautiful gardens in the world: there are so many of them and he feels in awe of humanity’s dedication to the plant kingdom. He thinks about choosing Cape Town’s Kirstenbosch and its baobabs, Monet’s gardens in France, or even the Noong Noch Tropical Botanical Garden in Chomburi, with its temples and brightly coloured flowers. There were the Kew Gardens there, in London, but it feels too foregone. He keeps on searching for the perfect place until he finds the Trauttmansdorff Garten in Meran, Italy, a city close to the border between that country, Austria and Switzerland. He knows that Crowley loathes the cold and, technically, going to the Alps wasn’t surely going to help with that but...lucky them, Meran was a thermal city, which meant it had a special microclimate. Absurdly perfect.  
So, Aziraphale learns to be secretive and smart around his demon, learns to deflect his questions (which, to be true, become more and more frequent every day, and a curious demon is a real pain his angelic behind) and to buy plane tickets and find accommodations online. He knows that he could simply miracle them both down there, but he wants to organize this whole thing for Crowley, because Crowley deserves it. He deserves him to learn how to use this blasted internet thing and discover new places, getting out of his comfort zone made of books. Crowley deserves this and more, he deserves everything he can give him and everything he can learn to give him.  
When the day comes Aziraphale has everything they might need already packed in two tartan suitcases that make Crowley do a double take, and two tickets hidden in his pocket because he still hasn’t told his demon where they’re going. The day is grey and rainy when they leave, and clear and bright when they land: it’s June, and the mountains look so close Aziraphale feels he could touch them from Turin’s airport. The flight has been perfectly uneventful: Crowley slept, he watched him sleep pretending to be reading.  
Nothing new, in fact.  
So, yes: the mountains looked close from Turin, but when they get to their hotel, well: they look just breathtaking. The air is pleasantly cool, the light looks cleaner in some way, and Crowley is looking at everything, perched on their balcony like it’s the first time he sees it all. And maybe it’s true even if it sounds strange, since they’ve been around for 6000 years. Aziraphale feels in awe too, sure, but he’s more for smooth hills and lovely cottages, British countryside and nice tea houses: this is more Crowley’ style. It’s wild, rocky and frightening in a way that’s both terrifying and beautiful to see, like some storms are. Honestly? Aziraphale could say the same about his demon.  
When he brings him to the gardens, keeping him blindfolded until they reach the gates (“Aziraphale, is this some sort of new game you’re playing? ‘Cause I might be interested, you know”, “Angel, come on, I can’t see a thing”, “This isn’t funny anymore, Aziraphale!”) oh, God. The transformation is astounding. Crowley looks around in a daze, lips parted and fingers twitching, and he’s so amazed and at peace that Aziraphale feels like crying. This is how he must have looked when he was still an angel, he thinks, when he was weaving galaxies and creating stars. He is...happy, and it’s such a foreign look on his face that Aziraphale feels both devastated and proud, because he’s been the one to put it there.  
“It’s” Crowley swallows, eyes huge behind his lenses “Angel, it’s beautiful”.  
Yes it is, thinks the angel: the effect he wanted to amplify is back in full force. The demon is surrounded by every shade of green on Earth, eyes soft, red hair a bright halo around his head. And then he turns around and his double nature shows in its entirety, when the soft aura surrounding him conflicts with his smile. Crowley’s smiles are pointy things, his canines always showing when he laughs: he does just that and proceed to fall head over heels for the small carnivore plants exhibition right in front of him.  
-  
“Look, angel. There’s a Witches garden!”  
Aziraphale lets Crowley drag him there: the Witches garden is nothing less of a collection of the most venomous plants on the planet, with some spooky wooden statues scattered around. Screw them, what really scares Aziraphale are the plants themselves: some are so dangerous you can’t touch them if you don’t want to get intoxicated, and maybe die in some absolutely not funny ways. Crowley walks among them without a care in the world, and Aziraphale knows he’s taking mental notes he’ll have to make him forget later, because there’s no way one of these things is entering his shop, thank you very much. Then he hears an “Oh!” and looks up, afraid that Crowley did something stupid and hurt himself, but the demon is just studying the map they’ve been given, a soft smile slowly spreading on his lips. Aziraphale takes hold of his old film camera and snaps a picture right before it gets pointy again.  
Yes, he knows that they’re immortal, and that he might be able to see that soft smile from there to eternity, but that particular moment is just so precious, you know? And then it’s gone, and when Crowley unleashes his pointy smile and folds the map, putting it back in his pocket, he offers the angel his arm.  
Honestly, Aziraphale could burst from sheer joy.  
He takes the proffered arm and lets himself be dragged somewhere else in the huge park, while Crowley explains that most of those so called dangerous plants are actually very helpful if used in the right dosage. Witches knew what they were doing, priests didn’t, he says, and Aziraphale can’t help it: he agrees. Humans did so many horrible things in Her name, and Heaven didn’t even try to stop them. And then he realizes that he doesn’t know where Crowley is taking him, but since he didn’t tell Crowley where they were going since the beginning of the whole trip he finds it just right. A bit of demonic retribution.  
-  
When they get there it’s Aziraphale’s turn to be astonished: they’re on a beach, a sign saying Sun gardens on his right. There’s no sea, obviously, but the view over the Alps in incredible. Crowley takes his shoes in one hand and his socks in the other, wriggling his toes in the warm sand and turning around to give Aziraphale a curious look, one that says “What the Hell are you waiting for, angel?”. Aziraphale gets the message and follows Crowley’s example, feeling the heat under his soles. The demon turns around again and finds a place to lounge in the sun, fishing a small sunscreen bottle from his jacket and drawing two white lines on his own face, followed by more lotion spread on his exposed forearms.  
Aziraphale sits close and bows down to help him with the sunblock, ending up kissing him long and deep in the sun, in the only city in the Alps that’s got a palms garden where snow should be. They’re going to visit Meran’ SPA, he decides sitting back and watching Crowley stretch like a lazy cat, letting him bake in the heat of the upcoming summer.  
(Of course, protected by an amazing quantity of sunscreen after their misadventure in Spain. Not fun, that.)  
He looks golden, Aziraphale thinks looking at him. He glows, literally glows, and is so happy and relaxed that Aziraphale takes another pictures, the demon’s arms crossed behind his head, legs spread out as always, crossed at the ankles.  
“You don’t want to go and see something else, dear?” He asks after the best part of an hour. Crowley shakes his head, slowly.  
“Nah. There’s no light where I come from so, if you don’t mind, I’ll soak it up a bit more”  
“Sure, love”  
“Aziraphale”  
Crowley’s eyes are still closed behind his glasses, and he’s smiling again. Aziraphale is getting so many smiles out of him he fears an overdose.   
“Thank you. For...you know. Getting me here”  
“Oh, dearest. I’m just happy. When you’re happy, I mean”  
“Well, angel” Crowley settles back on the beach lounge “Mission accomplished”.


	8. Broken wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fuckload of angst.
> 
> Try to imagine having two huge chunks of glass embedded in you back. Got it? Good. Now imagine how it would feel should someone touch them, God forbid move them.  
Pure, white hot agony.  
Crowley suspects that it must have to do with them, his wings, being what’s left of his angelic form. They’re there to hurt, you see? It must be some kind of eternal punishment crafted appositely for him. Should he feel honoured? Because he doesn’t. Like, at all.

On broken wings I'm falling  
And it won't be long  
The skin on me is burning  
By the fires of the sun  
On skinned knees  
I'm bleeding  
And it won't be long  
I've got to find that meaning  
I'll search for so long  
Alter Bridge - Broken wings

Have you ever seen an angel’s wings? Beautiful things. They came in all colours but black, are luminescent and, even when they’re plain white, they’re iridescent, their light ever-changing. To see such marvels is a blessing, and very rare: the only being that resides on Earth and has got them is very careful not to show them around. He doesn’t want to freak out all of Soho, you see.  
On the other hand, demon’s wings are something else entirely: they got hurt, in the Fall and, even if they didn’t get completely destroyed (it’s happened) they don’t really work anymore. So, in a way, if Aziraphale wings look like glass but are iron strong, Crowley’s wings look sturdy, but feel like glass: they hurt, every moment of every damn day. It was easier, in the beginning. He could even manifest them without feeling too much pain back then. But now? Not so much.  
Sure, he takes pride in them: he still has them bot, innit? Not all demons can say that. Some have lost them both, others just got one but, thinking about it, he envies them. They can’t hurt them if they’re not there, right? And of course they look cool, but manifesting them is the worst pain you can imagine. It’s like having hundreds of glass shards embedded between your shoulder blades, and don’t think that vanishing them might make the pain go away: it doesn’t fade for a long, long time. Never, actually. It’s always there, you just get used to it. And you can’t keep your wings hidden forever, because once in a while you’ll have to preen them if you don’t want the feathers to get crooked or out of place and hurt even more.  
The problem?  
Try to imagine having two huge chunks of glass embedded in you back. Got it? Good. Now imagine how it would feel should someone touch them, God forbid move them.  
Pure, white hot agony.  
Crowley suspects that it must have to do with them, his wings, being what’s left of his angelic form. They’re there to hurt, you see? It must be some kind of eternal punishment crafted appositely for him. Should he feel honoured? Because he doesn’t. Like, at all.  
It’s no wonder, then, that he dreads the days marked in red in the calendar Aziraphale and him keep in the shop, because it means that it’s preening day, and Aziraphale won’t let him get away with it. The angel is currently sitting on the floor between his legs, back against the couch Cowley is sitting on, and hums contentedly while the demon runs his hands through his feathers, straightening those that dared to break or get out of place. Crowley envies him, deeply, because that’s something he can’t enjoy anymore. He doesn’t resent him, never did and never will, but he can’t help it.  
When Aziraphale lets his head fall back against the couch, smiling like the angel he is, he knows that it’s all done. And the angelic smile vanishes, getting replaced by deep concern and sorrow.  
“You ready, love?”  
He murmurs, soft hands caressing his face. Crowley shakes his head, his arms going around his own ribcage in a desperate self hug.  
“Do I really have to? They don’t feel that bad”  
Aziraphale’s gaze softens but he nods anyway, and Crowley takes his place in front of the couch, between his angel’s legs.  
“You know we have to do this, love” Aziraphale says, hands running through his hair “It will get worse if we don’t”  
Crowley just sits there though, hugging his knees, breathing deeply and feeling his back start to tense. Aziraphale’s hands are on his shoulder blades now, trying to massage away the fear.  
“When you’re ready, love. There’s no rush, take all the time you need”  
And Crowley shuts his eyes tight at that, takes a deep breath and cries out as his wings appear, black and huge. Aziraphale’s hands move back to his hair, and he kisses his neck.  
“It’s ok, sweetheart. It’s ok.” He says into his skin “Tell me when I can start, alright?”  
Crowley nods and chokes on his words as he gives his assent.  
“Alright, love”

That’s how it begins, and it’ nothing less than excruciating considering that Aziraphale has merely touched his wings: Crowley has hidden his face between his knees and is trying to breath through the pain but it’s easier said than done. Aziraphale starts working on his feathers with delicate touches, but it feels like a hot poker is going straight through his brain anyway. He gasps, and his head shots up before falling down again.  
“I’m so sorry, love” He hears Aziraphale whisper “I’ll be as careful as I can”  
Crowley can’t even nod, he feels like screaming. It takes less than ten minutes for him to break down in full body shivers and he crosses his ankles, dragging them even closer to his body, feeling Aziraphale’s hands leave his wings.  
“Do you want me to stop, sweetheart?” The angel asks and, even if the respite is more than welcome, he knows he can’t stop or he won’t be able to start again. So he lolls his head no, still hidden between his knees, and hear Aziraphale exhale.  
“I could try to miracle them better, what do you think?”  
Crowley shakes his head again, and Aziraphale feels devastated. He feels like he’s hurting him on purpose, even if he’s not, and he knows that it has to be done if he doesn’t want his demon to be in even more pain. Seeing Crowley like that is killing him. Crowley’s skin, under his feathers, is too warm to the touch and his wings are constantly trembling, fine tremors that make his black feathers shake. He knows that Crowley is right, that demon wings and angelic miracles don’t mix, but he so wants to stop Crowley’s pain. Instead he just straightens some more feathers and hears Crowley choke down a sob. He hates it, he hates having to hurt him like that, and he hates all this unnecessary pain. So what if Crowley got to keep his wings? He’s already suffering enough, his head is a mess on the best days, and really don’t need all of this too. It’s just cruel.  
Crowley groans again under his hands.

He can’t take it anymore. It hurts. It hurts so much, and he can’t stop the sobs that are currently being wrenched from his throat with the strength of a punch in the gut.  
Make it stop. Please, someone, make it stop.  
“I don’t want my wings anymore. Take them away. Please Aziraphale, take them away”  
He’s crying. Aziraphale is crying too.  
It feels like ages, and when it’s all done Crowley is nothing but a trembling mess of sobs, shaking wings, pain and tears. But he’s still asking Aziraphale to take his wings away.  
-  
Aziraphale lets him vanish his wings and gathers him in his arms, all gangly limbs and hitched breathing, and keeps him close to his chest, keeps him warm against his body until they reach the bed. He puts him down, then, trying to get him comfortable, but Crowley is clinging to him and it looks like he won’t let him go anytime soon. It’s ok, really. He climbs in bed and spoons his demon, hands back in his red hair.  
“You did good, love. You did so good. You’re so brave”  
Crowley shakes his head, not trusting his own voice. He doesn’t feel brave. He doesn’t feel good. He feels like a discarded piece of meat, something ruined and unredeemable.  
“They hurt, angel” He stammers after a while “They hurt so much. They always hurt. Please”  
He hunches on himself but then turns around in Aziraphale’s arms, two thin lines of tears on his face. Aziraphale hugs him so tight that he fears me might break him, but it’s what Crowley needs right now. He needs Aziraphale to keep all the pieces glued together with those touches. He needs them to survive. But Aziraphale can’t take his wings away. He won’t. How could we? He won’t hurt him more than this. Not right now. He knows it’s selfish, but he can’t. He just can’t. So he hugs him instead, squeezes him actually, one hand in his hair and the other on the small of his back, careful not to touch the still tender and too warm skin between his shoulders and kisses Crowley’s forehead.  
“I’ve got you, love. I’ve got you”  
Crowley sobs are quieting, golden eyes looking at Aziraphale through the haze of tears, lips trembling.  
“It hurts”  
“I know love” Aziraphale tries to soothe.  
“Please”  
The angel hugs him again and hides his face in Crowley’s neck. Kisses his jaw, again and again.  
“I will. One day I will, I promise”  
Crowley cries himself to sleep. Aziraphale keeps him together. He never lets him go.


	9. All this and Heaven too

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A cold place, white and impersonal filled with mindless minions. That’s heaven for you. A place where they could kill you with a smile. Do you understand, now, the strength you need to survive, to disobey, to stand tall and say “Guys, this doesn’t really sound right”.  
Do you have an idea of how much it hurts?

But with all my education  
I can't seem to commend it  
And the words are all escaping me  
And coming back all damaged  
And I would put them back in poetry  
If I only knew how, I can't seem to understand it  
And I would give all this and heaven too  
I would give it all if only for a moment  
That I could just understand  
The meaning of the word you see  
'Cause I've been scrawling it forever  
But it never makes sense to me at all

All this and Heaven too - Florence and the Machine

This song was suggested by Mechamangamonkey, and I love it to pieces now <3

\--

If you were to judge Aziraphale just by his looks (which would be an awful thing to do, anyway) you’d think him soft. Insecure, maybe. Not scary at all. Surely not that much strong, hm? The angel seems made of clouds and sunshine, bright and comfortable to have around.  
Ha! Wrong.  
If you were to ask Crowley, he’d use totally different words. He’d tell you that Aziraphale is powerful beyond measure, that he’s smart and cunning, a bit of a bastard when needed. That he’s beautiful and so intelligent that sometimes he’s scary even if, admittedly, there are some things that Crowley had to explain him in a quite peculiar way. Like using his lips. Putting them on Aziraphale’s ones, I mean.  
Anyway.  
Yes, Aziraphale may look soft and benevolent, but Crowley would explain that he can be like that because he’s strong as hell, and can afford to be soft right because of that. Don’t think of angels as puffy, feathery things and remember this: they were created to be Her warriors, and each one of them could destroy a whole town on a whim. Not that his angel had ever wanted to do something like that, it was more Sandalphon’style (nasty fellow, if you ask Crowley), but it gives you the idea.  
Aziraphale, with his cherubic blond hair and blue eyes, was the guardian of the Eastern gate of Eden, and you don’t get to be the guardian of Eden if you’re not strong enough. And, just to be punctual: he hasn’t grown soft. He always was. He wasn’t out of shape: h was created like that, and it’s a shape that Crowley loves, and that could easily smite you. So.  
Crowley knows that Aziraphale is strong for another simple fact: he’s never kneeled to anyone. He smiles, and staggers, and sweats and stammers. He might even get scared. But he never kneels. A creature like hi, built to obey, with such a strong will and personality? Can you imagine the strength it takes? He didn’t fall, he’s still good in Her eyes, but this doesn’t really help.  
You see: Crowley fell. And it was horrible and painful, something that still gives him nightmares that make him jolt in bed, sweat clinging to him like an unwanted blanket. But when he fell he ended up with people (demons, actually) that knew what he was and what he could do, and he knew what to expect from them. In the end, he found out that neither Heaven nor Hell were his right place, anyway.  
Hell might have been interesting, at first: a new place to built and discover, somewhere to start over. In the end it just became another place where he felt...out of place, and he couldn’t count the times he was beaten, hurt, threatened on intimidated, even tortured down there. But, Heaven? Are you kidding? That place was a nightmare dressed like a high class politician dream: they did awful things without even questioning them, because they felt right by nature. Where was She when they decided that humans could burn witches or organize Crusades? Where was She while they treated his angel like dirt for millennia? Hm? A cold place, white and impersonal filled with mindless minions. That’s heaven for you. A place where they could kill you with a smile. Do you understand, now, the strength you need to survive, to disobey, to stand tall and say “Guys, this doesn’t really sound right”.  
Do you have an idea of how much it hurts?  
They never touched him, safe when they actually tried to burn him alive in Hellfire. But there are a fuckload of ways to hurt someone. Trust Crowley, he’s an expert.  
So, if Crowley came back from his hellish visits bruised and broken beyond recognition, Aziraphale came back spotless, but not less broken. And he still managed to resist, never kneeling and never falling, nor believing their promises, lies or threats. They didn’t touch him, never and in any way, which means that Aziraphale is both touch starved and scared to death to be touched, and Crowley has to keep this in mind every day if he doesn’t want him to freak out (and there has been some incidents that helped to remind him to be cautious around him). He’s strong, sure, but that doesn’t make him invincible. He needs Crowley just as much as Crowley need him, which means desperately.  
Aziraphale keeps on reminding him of all the times the demon saved his life (or his corporation), but the truth is that Aziraphale saves him everyday, mostly from himself. So you don’t have to be surprised, should you catch Crowley gazing lovingly at his angel like a lovestruck teenager. Have you ever tried saving a demon from himself? It would take a real miracle to get him out of his spiralling thoughts every damn day. You never stop Falling, you know. But his angel is always ready to catch him, and he has learnt to be ready to catch him too because also Aziraphale needs to be saved sometimes.  
Now that strong, pure, beautiful, soft and powerful being is innocently puttering around his shop, with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, engaged in the umpteenth reorganization of his books and blissfully unaware that Crowley is staring at him. He doesn't’ like to be looked at, and Crowley thinks it must be because of the comments he’s had to endure upstairs but, to him, he’s just perfect. He tries to make him understand every day how perfect he really is, but it’s hard to undo 6000 years of insecurities and suffering. He loves him, he loves him so much and he’s got a lot of work to do, he thinks as he walks around the shop, making all the noise he needs to make his presence known and getting closer.  
“Oi, angel” He smiles his pointy smile as Aziraphale turns around with three books under his arm “Fancy a drink, hm? My treat”  
“Oh, of course my dear!”  
And, just for a second, Crowley feels something akin to redeemed because he’s made his angel smile.


	10. Wave no flag

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley blinks and focuses on Aziraphale’s face. He made him worry. He doesn’t like seeing him worried, so he tries to smile. It doesn’t really work. Satan, it hurts.  
“Just a bit of a row with some ex colleagues. You should see the other guys”

Don't be afraid of the monsters  
Don't be afraid of the dark  
Don't be afraid of the future  
Cause i'll be here to be the shield around your heart  
If you'd go down, if you'd fall  
I'll be falling down with you  
Won't regret, won't reset  
Cause love's around  
If you'd drown down, if you'd break  
I'll be breaking down with you  
Won't look back, wave no flag  
Cause when you drown  
I will drown with you

Mono Inc - Wave no flag

Crowley bumps into some other demons, from time to time. He goes out and just...meets them walking around. Other times he feels their presence and goes looking for them, just to be safe. When he gets back he’s smiling like crazy, when it’s good, a wreck when it’s bad. The angel doesn’t know how it’s going to be until he’s back home.  
“Oi, angel”  
Aziraphale nearly crashes his white teacup on the ground when Crowley calls him from the door, keeping himself upright with an elbow poised against the door frame. He looks...crooked, from where Aziraphale is standing. Like something that got broken and never mended in the right way.  
“Crowley, dear. I didn’t know when you would be back”  
He smiles, putting the cup safely on his desk. Crowley shrugs, and Aziraphale is pretty sure he’s seen the fleeting ghost of a pained grimace on his features, but the demon hides it so well he thinks he must have imagined it. Crowley straightens his jacket with a smile.  
“Oh, you know. Had to take care of a few things.”  
Aziraphale is studying him, now, because there’s something very wrong with the demon. He doesn’t look right. He’s too tense, too...careful about what he’s doing. And that’s when the angel realizes that Crowley is hiding something, and it can’t be good. His face is still in the shadows, and he won’t let himself be seen.  
“You alright, love?”  
“Peachy, angel” He answers. And promptly collapses.  
Aziraphale just stands there, looking at the heap of limbs on the floor, and then unfreezes.  
“Oh, good Lord” He says, and you would be surprised to see how quick he can be when he wants to. He’s next to Crowley in no time, and has just started to check his head for injuries when the demon stirs, a strange string of syllables and profanities falling from his mouth.  
“What happened, dear? Is it safe to move you? Do you have any broken bone?”  
Aziraphale is hovering, he knows, but what else could he do? Like Crowley once said, his lot doesn’t send rude notes.  
“I’m...nnnnnngh” He squeezes his eyes shut “I’m fine, angel”  
“Oh no. You’re not. What happened?”  
Crowley blinks and focuses on Aziraphale’s face. He made him worry. He doesn’t like seeing him worried, so he tries to smile. It doesn’t really work. Satan, it hurts.  
“Just a bit of a row with some ex colleagues. You should see the other guys”  
Aziraphale doesn’t even answer, he’s helping Crowley to sit and, as soon as the demon’s back is perpendicular to the ground, Crowley shuts his eyes again and claws at Aziraphale’s shirt.  
“Slowly, for Satan’s sake! My head is killing me!”  
“There were more than one? And you were alone?”  
Aziraphale asks and, this time, the rage in his voice in unmistakable. Crowley merely nods, groaning right after doing that. Stupid thing to do when your head is pounding, honestly.  
“It’ssssss nothing, angel” He tries again “It’s nothing new, really. I’m fine”  
“Oh, don’t give me that”  
Aziraphale is filled with righteous, angelic rage and Crowley feels a careful hand check his head again. It’s startling, the contrast between those furious eyes and the delicacy he touches him with. Aziraphale’s touches are the only ones he’s never been scared of, he realizes, and lets his forehead rest against the angel’s chest, humming. Aziraphale’s hands still for a second, but then start searching for wounds again. There is blood on the back of Crowley’s head, and a painful bump too close to his temple for the angel’s liking. One of his eyes sports what will turn into a hell of a shiner pretty soon. Looks like he’ll have to get him out of his clothes to assess the whole damage, because Crowley isn’t going to talk. He’s actually dozing there, on the floor. Must be exhausted, the poor dear.  
“Darling” He whispers into his demon’s hair, rocking him to wake him up “Come on, Crowley, you can’t sleep here”  
“Mmmmf” Crowley scrunches his forehead “Watch me, angel”  
Aziraphale can’t help the soft giggle that the answer elicits. Crowley really is something.  
“You think you can move?” He asks “Or should I carry you?”  
The demon lets his head fall against Aziraphale’s belly.  
“No, angel. No need. Jussssst...” He groans as he moves, eyes tightly shut “Help me up, will you?”  
“Oh. Of course dear”  
They go slowly, once Crowley is more or less vertical and more or less walking. Aziraphale deposits him onto the couch and looks him up and down for a couple of times. Crowley just lies there, half in pain and half really perplexed then, after few minutes of contemplation, Aziraphale snaps his fingers, vanishing Crowley’s clothes and miracling them neatly folded on a chair, leaving him wearing just his black underwear and a very offended expression.  
“Oi! You could have asked me first, at least!”  
Aziraphale tuts and sits on the couch next to the demon, turning his face left and right to control the wounds.  
“I’m afraid not, love. You tend to become extremely frustrating when you need help”  
Crowley groans, thinking about at least five or six things that he could do to help the angel with his frustration, since he’s already in his boxers, and covers his face with both hands.  
“I don’t...need help”  
Aziraphale takes Crowley’s hands away from his face and smiles when he sees the demon’s eyes looking up at him, from behind his lenses.  
“There’s nothing wrong with needing help” He says, kissing Crowley’s wrists and making him blush “I’m more than happy to do it, you know”  
The demon bits his bottom lip, looking to the side.  
“Whatever”  
He mumbles, and looks at Aziraphale out of the corner of his eyes while he gets up and goes to the bathroom looking for what he might need to put the demon back together. He's back after a few minutes with what looks like a huge amount of alcohol and two steaming cups of tea, mixed with bandages and other strange stuff.  
“So” The angel sits and smiles “What will it be, love? Will you let me help?”  
“What.Ever”  
Crowley repeats, and settles on the couch. He doesn’t like what is going to happen, but knows that Aziraphale will miracle away whatever he can, and heal everything else in the most careful way possible. As he said before, his are the only touches he’s never been afraid of. He lets the angel’s hand touch his face, healing bruises and scrapes with small brushes of his fingertips, and then he feels Aziraphale’s fingers graze and check his abused ribs. He hisses when the angel presses on a particularly sore spot and inhales sharply when he starts dabbing rubbing alcohol on a nasty set of gashes right under his collarbone. Aziraphale covers the wounds in white bandages, applies some mysterious balm on Crowley’s ribcage and snaps his fingers again, protecting the just applied salve with the kind of plastic film he usually uses in the kitchen. He finally checks the demon’s legs for any injury and, satisfied to find none there, he miracles the demon’s hair clean from blood, gets up and retrieves Crowley’s pajama from their bedroom.  
“Alright, dear. All done” He hands Crowley the clothes and helps him put them on, sliding the shirt over his head and caressing his hips as the demons puts the trousers on, hovering just a bit. Then Crowley sighs, arms around his middle, and slips off his glasses.  
“Thank you, angel” He exhales “Sorry to be a burden”  
Now, from a rational point of view, Aziraphale knows where Crowley’s insecurities come from, They come from 6000 years of rejection and the nasty Fall he took. From a purely sentimental point of view, though, he hates hearing him talk like this about himself. In the end, he opts for gathering the exhausted, bruised demon in his arms, miracling his favourite blanket around his shoulder, handing him the still steaming mug. He bypasses the alcohol completely: Aziraphale wants Crowley to sleep, not to get delirious and start spitting absurdities about dolphins.  
Sure, dolphins are incredibly smart creatures, and he’d love spending some quality time with Crowley talking about them, but now is not the right moment. His demon needs to rest, and rest he will so, after having transformed his stylish demon in a blanket burrito, he waits for him to finish his tea, kisses his temple and lets him put his head against his chest. Crowley clears his throat and gets comfortable, snuggling in his angel’s warmth.  
“You’re not a burden, love” He hears Aziraphale whisper “Never been, never will be.”  
Crowley doesn’t answer, and Aziraphale takes it as his cue to go on.  
“You’re beautiful, and smart, and gentle, and loved”  
He feels Crowley shrug, hiding his face in Aziraphale's neck.  
“Hm. Love you too, angel” He mutters, eyes closed and lips parted “Read to me?”  
Aziraphale smiles, soft and happy, and reaches for the book he keeps on the coffee table in front of the couch, while encircling Crowley’s shoulders with the other arm.  
“Of course, love. Try to sleep”  
He kisses Crowley’s forehead, and starts.

“I am a star in the firmament  
that observe the world, despises the world  
and consumed in its heat.

I am the sea by night in a storm  
the sea shouting that accumulates new sins  
and to the ancient makes recompense.

I am exiled from your world  
of pride polite, by pride defrauded,  
I am the king without crown.

I am the passion without words  
without stones of the hearth, without weapons in the war,  
is my same force that make me sick”

\---

AAAAND that's Herman Hesse for you!


	11. That day that Heaven had gone away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s in Milan, officially for some tempting, but actually because Aziraphale found him in Florence and successfully tempted him to try this famous risotto in the Lombard city. There are some carpenters building a stage in the square he’s in, and he thinks that there must be some kind of show later, but the people gathered around don’t look happy. They look feral, like wild animals waiting for an easy prey. When the stage is done the angel looks at him and shakes his head.

There'll be no long goodbyes  
There'll be no more tears to cry  
The day that Heaven had gone away

The day that Heaven had gone away - Black label Society

Inquisition and witch hunt are just words, now, used to talk about a horrible past or by some usually guilty politician to describe what he’s going through with the law.  
Back in the day, though, those weren’t just words. Oh, not at all. Thousands of people were killed by self appointed saviours of humanity, much more were tortured, a lot just...vanished. Maybe those so called good doers really believed in what they were doing, but Crowley was sure of one thing and one thing only: witches weren’t what they thought they were and those awful inquisitors were sadistic bastards, all of them, true believers or not. Misogynistic, sadistic, sexually repressed bastards. Before we start with this tale, you must know that Inquisition is a European invention, exported later in the USA in a clear example of how things worked back then: things were created in Europe and then they reached the States. Now it’s usually the opposite and it works better too. Think about rock n’roll: born from soul and gospel singers in cotton fields, enslaved black people that sang their pain, then given birth by Sister Rosetta Tharpe, an amazing queer, black woman that both Crowley and Aziraphale were honoured to call their friend. Wonderful woman, amazing talent, incredible what she could do with a guitar.  
Anyway, I digress: all this just to say that Inquisition started and stopped earlier in Europe than in the USA so you, dear American readers, might feel a bit...lost in time.  
Now, let’s begin. Shall we?  
1252\. Maybe you’re not familiar with the date, but it’s a year that both angel and demon will never forget. Pope Innocenzo IV wrote the Ad Extirpanda, officially starting the Inquisition. The whole affair had already began in 1184 with Redbeard and Pope Lucio III, but it exploded two centuries later with two new guys, both German, and their book. The guys were Heinrich Kramer and Jacob Sprenger, and the book was the Malleus Maleficarum. The Hammer of the witches.  
How sadistic did you have to be to write something like that, thinks Crowley with his brand new copy of the book, around 1487. How cruel. How ignorant. That thing is pure evil, and not the kind of evil he appreciates. His fingertips hurt just touching it. The ink burns, and not because it feels holy. It’s like immersing his skin in Hellfire: you won’t die, but it won’t be pleasant anyway. The two German men describe women both as lesser beings, stupid and credulous, and like predators ready to condemn innocent men to perdition and an eternity of suffering. The dichotomy leaves him honestly confused, but that’s not what worries him. He still remembers Ipazia, a dear friend killed by crazed christians that didn’t like the idea that women could...well. Think. This book, this whole century, is a replay of those things. Ipazia, killed. Alexandria’s library, burnt. And upstairs didn’t say a word to stop it all back then, and it looks like it won’t do it even now. Crowley does what he can: he took the merit for the whole Inquisition thing, but actually loathes it (and he accepts the commendation, if only to get Beelzebub off his back). He hides the people suspected of witchcraft, makes them vanish from their cell, helps them run but it feels like fighting against the sea. You can’t win against it, you can just resist the waves and not to drown.  
And then, in 1601, he meets Caterina. Nah, nothing romantic: Caterina was a woman from Pavia, Italy. Her actual name was Caterina De’Medici, but she had nothing to do with the noble family from Florence: she was born poor, and given in marriage to Bernardino when she was just thirteen year old. He forced her to sell herself for money, and that’s how Crowley met her.  
And fuck, no. Of course he didn’t buy her. He saw her on the streets and thought to befriend her. He was bored and, you see, she was really smart. He told her that he could make her husband conveniently disappear, but she refused and Crowley still doesn’t know why. She was just a child, back then, and still a child when Bernardino died a few years later. Crowley didn’t see her for a while, but heard that she was working as a servant for some Luigi Melzi, a captain in Milan’s guard, and that they had two kids. He even felt happy for her. Until March the 4th, 1617.  
He’s in Milan, officially for some tempting, but actually because Aziraphale found him in Florence and successfully tempted him to try this famous risotto in the Lombard city. There are some carpenters building a stage in the square he’s in, and he thinks that there must be some kind of show later, but the people gathered around don’t look happy. They look feral, like wild animals waiting for an easy prey. When the stage is done the angel looks at him and shakes his head. There’s something wrong, he can feel it. This isn’t going to be some street theatre or a juggling show. And then Crowley sees the priests starting to pile up on the stage and a tall wooden post is hoisted in its centre by a masked man and he understands, oh he understands so quickly, that this is going to be some other kind of show entirely, something so cruel and twisted he can’t even start to stomach it. His eyes grow large under his dark lenses and he feels Aziraphale tense next to him, frozen to the spot. The angel is sweating, but the day is so cold he can taste snow.  
That’s when they bring in Caterina, and Crowley’s world shatters. He’s just dimly aware of the angel’s voice calling him over the buzzing in his ears, and feels like he’s going to faint. She’s bruised and bloodied, her hair dirty, her clever eyes empty. The executioner carries her on the stage and Crowley understands what’s going to happen, and feels his fangs start to show. He won’t let this happen to her, he can’t...but the man is torturing Caterina with sizzling pliers, and she’s screaming, and it’s a terrible sound: hoarse and resigned. And then the man’s hand are around her throat.  
Crowley screams, until Aziraphale’s hand is on his mouth and they both vanish, reappearing inside the angel’s room at the inn he’s staying in. In the air, the stench of fire and burning flesh.  
-  
“Stop them” Crowley’s eyes are angry and tear filled, fangs showing “Angel, stop them. Fuck, Aziraphale, you have to stop them!”  
Aziraphale doesn’t know what to do. His palm still tingles after the contact with the demon’s mouth, but it’s a quite pleasant sensation. Said demon, though, looks ready to rip his throat open.  
“How, Crowley?” He screams back. He knows that he should keep calm, but what he saw has disturbed him deeply “What should I do, jump in there with a flaming sword like a madman?”  
“YES! Fuck, angel! Aren’t you supposed to help people? Help her!”  
“It’s...I...it’s too late, Crowley”  
The demon deflates, at that. Aziraphale can only watch as Crowley’s eyes widen and he falls on his knees a low, keening sound tumbling from his mouth. His hands scratch the pavement, and Aziraphale is tempted to take his fingers in his to stop him from hurting himself. But he doesn’t touch him. Not again. He just kneels in front of him, trying to get his attention.  
“I hate Heaven”  
He hears, and his blood runs cold. He should smite Crowley for what he just said, but he can’t. Maybe because at the moment he hates it too, just a bit. And then Crowley explodes.  
“I hate Heaven!”  
He screams, and the windows smash with the sound of a thousand thunders. The demon is panting, teeth clenched, and his pupils are just slits in a sea of gold. He’s wrath, pure wrath personified, and Aziraphale is both scared and awed. This is the power of the angel that created the stars, melted by fire and tempered by hate.  
“I hate your lot” He growls looking at Aziraphale, and the angel feels the hair on the back of his neck stand.  
“You self righteous bastards, you sadistic fuckers!” Crowley is standing, now, and the sheer force of his power is making his hair flutter around his face “She was my friend, Aziraphale, my friend! And you angels didn’t move a finger to save her! I...I didn’t...”  
Aziraphale has to spring forward to catch him when he falls, and can barely hear what he says.  
“I didn’t save her. I didn’t save her”  
This isn’t the first time they touch, but it’s quite an extended kind of touch: the demon is boneless, supported by the angel’s chest, and Aziraphale’s hand keeps him there resting against his temple. There’s been a time, centuries before, where he had to keep the demon close like this, but it had involved a great deal of blankets and no skin on skin contact. This is so different, Aziraphale realizes. Crowley’s head is a warm presence against his sternum, and his red hair are soft between his fingers. He shakes, and Aziraphale’s protective instinct kicks in, spurring him to adjust his grip settling on the pavement, keeping the demon even closer.  
“You knew her?” He tries, and is surprised when Crowley answers.  
“Met her when she was a kid, got friends. She was smart, angel, so smart and unlucky. You would have liked her. She made killer cakes”  
Despite everything Aziraphale smiles, but it fades when Crowley speaks again.  
“It’s my fault. It must be. I’m a demon. It’s my fault. And I didn’t even save her”  
Is monotonous, the tone of his voice, and it gives Aziraphale the chills. He starts rubbing Crowley’s shoulder.  
“Oh, dear. No, it’s not”  
But Crowley has convinced himself, and Aziraphale can’t seem to take him out of his derailing thoughts.  
“It is, angel. Punishment. My fault. Has to be”  
Aziraphale finds himself rocking Crowley back and forth. Oh, should someone see them it would be a literal Hell of a problem but, at the moment, he doesn’t care. All he cares about is the demon in his arms and the deep injustice a woman just suffered by the hands of stupid men convinced to be doing Her will. He should smite them all. He will, he decides. He does.  
There is a distinct change in the air, it fizzles, and Crowley’s head shoots up, golden eyes looking straight at him. He looks raw. Just like Aziraphale feels.  
“Angel” He whispers, scared “What did you do?”  
“What had to be done”  
The angel, the Principality answers, and Crowley feels a shiver run down his spine. He’s never seen Aziraphale use his powers like that. Never seen his eyes grow so cold. That blue gaze thaws after a bit, looking at Crowley, and the demon breathes better.  
“They didn’t deserve to be alive” He explains, drawing intricate patterns on Crowley’s back with his index finger “So I made them...vanish. They were doing Hell a favour, so I suppose it won’t be a problem with Heaven. Gabriel could even compliment me for once”  
His voice isn’t cold anymore, even if it stays hard and unapologetic, but his embrace is warm and Crowley needs it.  
“Tell me about her”  
Aziraphale asks, still keeping him close. And Crowley tells him everything he can remember.


	12. I need some sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was so embarrassed about it that he never breathed a word to Aziraphale: what could he say?  
“Oi, angel. I can’t sleep if you’re gone. Mind staying at home for a while so I can get some shut eye?”

I need some sleep  
You can't go home like this  
I try counting sheep  
But there's one I always miss  
Eels - I need some sleep

Should you ask him he’d deny it to the brink of discorporation, but Crowley has grown not only to love sleep, but to need it. It has taken a toll on his corporation, this so undemonic habit of him, and now if he doesn’t sleep at least a couple of hours a night he’ll get snippy, tired and overall insufferable and miserable. In this, he’s so much more human than he’d like to admit. Aziraphale once told him that he looked zombified after having gone three days straight without sleeping to complete some hellish (literally) task and, much to his chagrin, he has to admit that it was pretty true.  
Another thing that he’ll deny even more vehemently is this: since Aziraphale and him started their relationship he can’t sleep alone anymore. At first he thought that it was just his raging, post apocalypse that wasn’t, anxiety, then he gave responsibility to the nightmares he didn’t want to admit he had but the truth was that he needed Aziraphale close to sleep.  
The angel doesn’t have to be in bed with him, or even in the same room: Crowley just needs him to be at home to fall asleep. Reading, checking his books, not selling them to someone. Everything is ok as long as he’s in the shop with him. It’s anxiety, and he knows it: it’s just not related to the Apocalypse that wasn’t only, but to him, in general. I mean, being forced to watch your own back for 6000 years will do that to you.  
Honestly, it was ridiculous: demons don’t do that. They don’t get anxiety, and they don’t get attached. Actually, they don’t even sleep. Period. Guess he was a peculiar demon then, since he needed it so bad. Both sleeping and Aziraphale’s closeness. He was so embarrassed about it that he never breathed a word to Aziraphale: what could he say?  
“Oi, angel. I can’t sleep if you’re gone. Mind staying at home for a while so I can get some shut eye?”  
Pfffft. Embarrassing. Pathetic. He knew it had to do with his fear of losing the angel too, even if Heaven and Hell both seemed keen on leaving them alone, but this knowledge really doesn’t help. If only, it makes him even more sure not to say a thing to Aziraphale: he doesn’t want him to know what a nutcase he decided to accompany himself with.  
So, he sleeps when Aziraphale is home at night and the angel suspects nothing: he knows that Crowley loves sleeping, so he sees nothing strange in the fact that the demon tends to disappear in their bedroom for a few hours every night. Sometimes he stays at his desk or putters around in the shop, taking care of the books. Other times he opts for joining him on the bed reading something, soothing nightmares, giggling when the demon starts talking in his sleep (“Hm...’ziraphale...the ducks want curry”) and caressing red, soft hair. Everything goes perfectly smooth until Aziraphale decides to go scouting for some rare first edition right when Crowley is stuck in London looking after the Them, visiting the city with Anathema and Newt.  
Should it seem strange to you that a whole bunch of kids had had permission from their parents to visit London with a couple of nearly strangers, you should remember that Adam’s will was still pretty strong. And if he really desired something, it tended to happen. In this he was so similar to Crowley that Aziraphale found it really endearing, if only a bit unsettling.  
The kids had all expressed the desire to see both angel and demon, and they had agreed on welcoming them in the shop where a room had miracled itself into existence with enough beds for them all, and a new double sofa bed had appeared in the living room for the human couple. That’s when Aziraphale had received the letter that informed him that some merchant in Greece might have what he had been looking for, for years. He refused to leave at first, not wanting to miss their friends visiting, but both Anathema and Crowley reassured him that their guests would still be there after he’d be back from his four days trip so, in the end, he had packed what he thought he might need (and a fuckload of bowties, in you ask Crowley), kissed his demon and miracled himself in Athens with a snap of his fingers.

The first day isn’t that bad. Crowley gets them to Covent garden and the kids go crazy with all the weird shops while Newt, Anathema and him sit outside of one of the bars with their drinks, both witch and demon keeping an eye on the children’s auras to be sure they’re fine. He feels like some kind of strange uncle, but he’s surprised to realize that he doesn’t mind it: he’s relaxed and glad to be there, and he didn’t expect that since he’s so used to be close to Aziraphale everyday. He thought that the separation, as short as it may be, would have hurt much more. Sure, he misses his angel terribly and is constantly turning around to tell him something just to be reminded that he’s not there by...him being not there, actually, but he’s not self combusting. Yet. Isn’t he?  
That night, anyway, even if he’s tired like someone that had to look after a small tribe of children, he doesn’t sleep a minute.

The second day some sort of miracle happens and the clouds that have been cloaking the skies of London for days vanish. It’s got nothing to do with Crowley, and he tells Wedneysdale so but the kid still looks sceptical and, somewhere in the deep folds of his unredeemable soul, Crowley is moved to realize that the kid really believes him capable of such a feat.  
Well, he could. He can stop time so, if he imagines it strong enough, he should be able to change the weather maybe. It just never occurred to him and, thinking about it, it would be pretty useful to fight off the cold London winter. He feels it would be unfair, though, and it would disrupt nature’s equilibrium, not to talk about the huge amount of energy it would take. Nah, he’ll let the rain fall and the sun shine as they please. He’s still absorbed in such thoughts when they reach Hyde Park and scatter around in the grass, the kids playing and the adults (and eventual demon) enjoying the sun on a tartan blanket. Crowley feels tired, but he won’t let it stop him from having some fun: they run around the park, the kids chasing the demon around.  
That night he feels dead on his feed. He doesn’t sleep anyway.

The third day doesn’t start well: Crowley hasn’t slept a single second in 48 hours, and he’s feeling it all. His head hurts and his eyes burn they feel like sandpaper, and it hurts to keep them open for too long. His hands tremble slightly around his cup of coffee and Pepper notices, making her chair scrape loudly on the kitchen floor to get closer to him around the breakfast table. Crowley cringes at the noise and the girl looks sorry enough to make him feel guilty for his instinctual reaction. But it’s just that his head hurts so bad, and he can’t really focus on anything so, when Pepper touches his hand, he jumps before turning around to knowledge her. Every pair of eyes in the room are looking at him, and he feels suddenly self conscious. He slides on his shades, feeling a bit more protected, and arches an eyebrow at the girl.  
“Yes?” He asks, and Satan, his voice sounds hoarse as fuck.  
“You don’t look good” Pepper observes, hands under her chin, and the whole table seems to agree with her. Crowley swallows on air and hides his face in the mug.  
“’m fffffine” He hisses, and Anathema’s eyes widen. Oh, he shouldn’t have let his serpent tongue slip, but he’s just so...tired.  
“Are you sure?” Newt insists, and Crowley has to use all what’s left of his self restraint not to snap.  
“Ssssaid I’m fine” he growls and Newt nods, remembering who he’s talking to and suddenly finding great interest in the content of his cereal bowl. Crowley feels like shit and covers his face with both hands, glasses digging in his skin. His headache grows up a notch.  
“Ssssorry” Crowley hisses again, can’t stop himself from doing it, and decides that he won’t use any word starting with S from then on. Or any word with an S, in general. He might as well shut up, thinking about it “Didn’t sssslep well”.  
Oh, for fuck sake!  
“You should rest, this morning” Anathema suggests “We can get out on our own. You should sleep, Crowley”.  
No shit, Sherlock, he thinks. And shrugs.  
“No use”  
“You sure?”  
“’m sssssure” He bites his own tongue, trying to stop it from hissing “What do you feel like doing today, hm?”  
They end up walking around Camden. Crowley doesn’t sleep.  
On the fourth morning he’s an absolute wreck, and it shows. He sits heavily at the breakfast table, hands on his face, killed headache firmly in place. That’s when Adam asks him something, but he can’t really make out what he says, so the Antichrist turned kid repeats his question.  
“Is it because Aziraphale is not here?”  
Oh. That’s why everyone is silent, looking at him like he’s made of glass. He blinks the room into focus and clears his throat. The kid is perceptive. Always has been.  
“Nah” He lies, letting his hands fall on the table “Just happens from time to time”  
Adam doesn’t look convinced but Crowley is beyond caring. He just wants to sleep for a century.  
“I could make you some herbal tea” He hears Anathema suggest over the ringing in his ears “Might help”  
Crowley lets his head thunk on the table, then mutters.  
“I’m a demon. Doesn’t work with me”  
“Oh”.

That morning they go back to Hyde Park. Anathema keeps the children occupied together with Newt, hoping that Crowley will get some sleep on the blanket he’s sprawled on. When she gets close to him to tell him that the kids are ready to go back to the shop, though, her hopes get shattered by the demon’s red eyes and sluggish movements.  
“Crowley” Calls Adam as son as they get home, index finger pointing to the star projector Aziraphale built for the demon “What is that?”  
“A present from the angel” He mutters tiredly “It projects the stars all around the room”  
“Cool!” The kids cheer and, even if their voices hurt his head, he can’t help but smile his pointy smile.  
“Wanna see it?”  
They shut out all the light from the room and look around as the stars shine around them. Crowley ends up telling them everything he knows about every glittering pin of light, sitting on the floor with his back against the couch, Adam under his right arm, Pepper under his left and the two remaining kids using his legs as pillows while Anathema and Newt sit huddled on the cushions. He recounts the birth of every star he made, talks about every tale behind every constellation, even those that belongs to the half sky they don’t usually see from their hemisphere until he feels the children nod off. He turns around to ask the couple to help him get them to bed but they’re sleeping too. He lets his head fall back on the couch and, much to his surprise, he feels himself start to relax. He hadn’t realized it up ‘till that moment, but he feels safe, surrounded by those people, and can feel the angel getting closer to home. 

When Aziraphale reappears in the shop that night he can’t help but smile looking at their friends sleeping on the couch, and his demon fast asleep, surrounded by children. They form like a barrier around him, and he’s grateful for their presence. He knows that Crowley doesn’t like it when they’re not together. He smiles, and takes a mental picture.


	13. Gimme shelter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley goes on, leaving a deep trace in the fresh snow, limbs like lead and head filled with cotton, and when he gets there what does he see?  
A blessed monastery.  
“Fuck”  
He crumbles right in front of the gates.

Oh, a storm is threat'ning  
My very life today  
If I don't get some shelter  
Oh yeah, I'm gonna fade away  
Gimme shelter - Rolling stones

It’s cold as fuck, is all that Crowley seems to be able to think. He’s been walking for hours in that unending blizzard, and he’s starting to feel pretty close to discorporation. No horses for him, they tend to get spooked by his presence, and he couldn’t find any other means of transport, so on foot he was. Would he not hate the cold he’d appreciate the sheer force of nature that is currently screaming around him, making his clothes wrap around his legs and his hair whip his face but, alas, that was not the case: he can’t feel his hands, and knows that he still has both of his feet just because he’s walking on them. The cold has entered his lungs, leaving him gasping for air, and it hurts.  
He’s not wearing as many layers as he should, and it’s costing him, but for fuck sake! It was sunny that blasted morning, so sue him for not being able to predict the freaking weather of that German region. He’s drenched, and cold, and pissed at himself for getting lost like an idiot, but he can’t even see where he’s going with that blasted storm.  
Then, he sees something. It’s faint and far at the beginning, just a trembling shadow in the distance that looks like a mirage. Could be that, he thinks, or maybe his brain has frozen and finally given up on him. Might be both. He squeezes his eyes as the wind whistles in his ears, and tires to gauge a better view of the mysterious, huge, grey object in front of him but the snow is too thick to see a thing. He trudges forward because, seriously: what does he have to lose? If that thing exists than that’s good, he might find shelter, otherwise...well. He’ll think about any otherwises later. Staying still would mean certain death anyway, so he doesn’t really have a choice, does he?  
Crowley goes on, leaving a deep trace in the fresh snow, limbs like lead and head filled with cotton, and when he gets there what does he see?  
A blessed monastery.  
“Fuck”  
He crumbles right in front of the gates.  
-  
“Brother Marcus, I believe there is someone out there” The young scholar says, one finger pointing outside the slightly open door to let the light in, but keep the cold out. It’s not really working. It’s cold like Hell in there, but he won’t voice his thoughts. And there is a dark shape indeed, like a heap of fabric in front of their gates. Marcus, one of the oldest, venerable friar in the monastery, follows his index finger and sees a black clad figure fallen in the snow.  
“Tell brother Philias to open the gates, Nikolaus” He orders “We have to help that man”  
-  
Crowley feels himself being hoisted up and brought inside, and doesn’t have the strength to resist. His eyes won’t open, his limbs won’t cooperate. It’s still cold, and he can’t force his body to do what he needs it to do. Meaning: running away from that place as soon as possible. He can smell the holiness, and it’s so strong it hurts his head. When the friars, because they have to be friars, deposit him on a cold, hard surface, the pain is strong enough to make him scream, his flesh sizzling.  
“Call brother Zeno!” He hears a male voice order, and then there are hands pressing him down on that blasted church bench. Really, did they need to get him inside the church? Don’t they have an infirmary or something?  
The feel of something blessed, truly blessed, touching his corporation is agonizing, and Crowley has the presence of mind to realize that this is no ordinary blessing, a mere wooden bench shouldn’t be able to do this to him, even inside a bloody church. This is something else, there is something...angelic at work, a very well done job of protection and defence against things like him, something that no human could be able to do. Someone pins his head against the wood with a hand on his forehead and he screams again at the feel of unbearable heat at the back of his skull. He blacks out again.  
-  
When he comes to he finds himself tied up against the wall of a damp, dark stone cell. Such a cliché, he thinks. Cells are always damp and dark. Anyway: it’s still cold, and he starts to think that he can’t take anymore. He’s shaking, and his burnt back doesn’t appreciate the movements. Everything hurts, and this place burns, too. The fact that they chained him to force his back against the wall isn’t helping either. The skin of his back and of the back of his legs burns already on its own after the close encounter with the bench, and the literally blessed wall behind him is doing the same job pretty well. The chains around his wrists hurt like hell too, and Crowley’s chin falls against his chest while he lets out a low moan trying to get as far as possible from the blessed stones. He’d scream again, but he misses to strength to do so, and the chains are too short and keep him pinned there like some kind of bug, his muscles spasming with pain, red hair long and disarrayed, so far from the neat ponytail he had tied them in the same morning. He hopes it was the same morning, at least, but truly he can’t say what time is it, or for how long he was out cold. He’d much prefer the storm to this and, considering his hatred for the cold, this gives you a bit of the idea of how he’s feeling. He’d take the cold over this torture anyway. Crowley lets his hands hang from the wall, the chains still burning a ring of reddened flesh around his wrists, and opens his eyes. They took his glasses, but it’s dark enough to keep his serpent irises hidden. Or so he hopes, because there is someone down there with him, just outside the cell, looking at him through rusty bars. He looks like a kid, but he’s wearing the tonsure already, and if this isn’t what Crowley would define a Pretty Rash Decision Taken In Someone’s Youth he doesn’t know what is it. The kid’s hands are twisting around the rough material of his clothes and clothes understand that he frightens him from his posture: someone must have appointed him as his personal guardian, but the boy looks ready to bold. Probably, that’s the last place he’d like to be, and Crowley’s company isn’t exactly thrilling to him. The kid starts when Crowley groans again, and takes a step back: the demon would like to talk to him, tell him something, ask for his name, ask why on Earth did he decide to become a friar at such a young age. Tempt him into opening the cell or even just let him out of those chains but, as soon as he opens his mouth to speak, he hears hurried footsteps and the boy smiles in relief, reclining his head in front of an older man that just descended the stairs, coming to a halt in front of the iron bars. The man waits for the boy to leave, then lets his hood fall from his head and opens the door.  
“I swear, Crowley. Of all places”  
He mutters, advancing on him with a set of jangling keys. He fumbles with them for a while, then sighs and snaps his fingers and the chains fall from Crowley’s wrists. Crowley hisses when his wrists are freed, his skin burning and reacting to the sudden cold, and then reacts to the new presence.  
“Angel?” He tires to force his voice to sound normal, but what comes out sounds more like a bad impression of his usual voice. He coughs “What on Earth are you doing here?”  
Aziraphale looks exasperated as he helps him to his feet.  
“Me, Crowley? This is a monastery! What are you doing here?”  
Crowley has to bit his lips when his feet touch the floor, his whole weight resting on them. How can this be? So much blessed...stuff all around, it must have been a huge work to do. And then it downs on him.  
“You...mmmf” He groans as his whole corporation hurts, Aziraphale isn’t exactly being tender with him at the moment, hoisting him up like a potato sack. It’s the first time they touch, and he’d hoped for something nicer, honestly “You did this, didn’t you?” He forces out through gritted teeth.  
“What, chain you to the wall?” Aziraphale sounds offended, but his grip gets softer “Absolutely not”  
Crowley is leaning heavily on the angel now, heaving and trying to catch his breath but, paradoxically, Aziraphale is the only thing that isn’t hurting him. He scoffs, blowing red hair away from his face.  
“Not the chains, angel. The blessings!” He hisses again when Aziraphale’s arm touches his back, and notices the angel’s guilty face. It lasts for merely a second, before getting replaced with righteous anger.  
“I wanted them to be protected, them and their library, Crowley. And since you’re here, it looks like I was right.”  
Something lurches inside Crowley’s chest. What the angel just said hurts, in a way, and he recoils from his one armed grip. Aziraphale has to reach for him again to save him from kissing the floor.  
“I didn’t want to be here, angel” Crowley spits out, angry and hurt “I just got caught in the storm ad couldn’t see where I was going. Ended up in a bloody monastery, for fuck sake”  
Oh, well. Should this be true it changes everything. Aziraphale stops to look at him and Crowley loses his momentum and, with it, his balance. The angel has to grasp him with both hands to stop him from careening into the wall.  
“Fuck angel!” Crowley groans “Careful, will you? It hurts!”  
“Language, dear” Aziraphale admonishes, but his touch gets lighter, his voice sounds more concerned than angry and he readjusts his grip to hurt him as little as possible. It doesn’t stop Crowley from hissing a “fuck you” between his teeth. They’re walking up the stairs and out in the courtyard, and an old friar is moving in their direction. Crowley hates him immediately, and he doesn’t even know who the heck he is. He just knows that he’s standing between himself and some kind of salvation.  
“Brother Zeno” The old man calls as soon as he spots them. It takes a while for him to reach Aziraphale and him and, in that short amount of time, Crowley manages to feel both freezing and burning. The snow creates an insulated layer, working for him against that blasted sacred ground, but the cold is seeping deeper into him, making him shiver. The angel must have felt that, because he brings Crowley closer. The touch hurts his burnt flesh, but the warmth is more than welcome.  
“Brother Zeno” The man exhales as soon as he’s in front of them. His voice sounds like old, crinkling paper “Why have you freed this creature?”  
Crowley bristles a bit at being called a “creature”, but Aziraphale covers his head with his own arm, forcing him to turn his face and hide against his side. It’s not bad, Crowley thinks. It feels safe.  
“This is no creature, brother Marcus” He hears Aziraphale answer, and is grateful for that “This man’s back is badly burnt, that’s why he started screaming when you rested him on the bench”  
Now, that’s lame. Crowley can’t really see a thing with his face pressed against the angel’s clothes, but he feels the small miracle that Aziraphale uses to convince the old friar.  
Marcus, must be his name, says nothing and lets them pass, watching them cross the courtyard to reach the infirmary’s wooden door. As soon as they’re inside, Aziraphale snaps his fingers.  
-  
“That place really did a number on you” Crowley opens his eyes, and finds himself in a warm room. Looks like an inn, but he can’t really be sure. He’s not sure of anything, really, because the whole place is spinning and he can’t even focus on the angel’s voice. All he’s aware of are the cold and the pain, and the fact that his knees buckle and he catches himself against the bedpost. And, surely, that day will go down as one of the worst of his utterly long existence. Aziraphale turns around and catches him trying not to fall flat on his face.  
“Crowley, dear” The angel’s voice sounds distorted and far, but he can see him getting closer and recoils. Aziraphale stops for a moment, hands up “I’m not going to hurt you, Crowley”  
Oh. Sure. Right. Crowley has to make an effort to remember who is in the room with him and to relax, but he more or less succeeds.  
“Sssssorry, angel” He breathes out “Jusssst had a bad day”  
Aziraphale waits for Crowley’s nod to approach him again, slower and cautiously. The whole back of Crowley’s corporation is badly burnt, and his wrists are a mess of mangled flesh and blood. The demon is still shivering from the cold and, honestly, that’s what worries him more: he can heal the burns, or most of them anyway, but warming him up will be tricky.  
Aziraphale helps Crowley out of his frozen clothes ad cringes at the icicles in his hair, feeling his pain as the fabric slides from burnt flesh, and the demon is only happy to oblige when Aziraphale pushes him on the soft, warm bed laying on his belly. He’s so exhausted he can’t even joke about the situation, meaning him, half naked, on Aziraphale’s bed. And this makes the angel worry even more.  
“Now stay still, dear. I’m afraid this is going to hurt, but you’ll feel better soon” Aziraphale’s voice is reassuring as he puts his hands on his back, right on the burns, making him flinch. Hard. The touch hurts as hell, and the holy energy that he feels entering his body hurts even more. He muffles a scream in the thick comforter and bites the fabric but, as soon as the pain starts, it gets replaced by a soothing numbness and, after a little while, Crowley feels his flesh heal and his skin mend. He lets out a breath and sags against the bed, adrenaline and pain leaving his body, only to be reminded of his condition by a shiver that wrecks him from head to toes. Aziraphale tuts and vanishes, reappearing with a small vase filled with some strong smelling ointment.  
“May I touch you again, dear” He asks, sitting beside him “This is an herbal remedy, should warm you up a bit”  
Crowley can only nod, and Aziraphale rubs his back with angelic force. Crowley feels a bit of warmth starting to seep in his body. It’s not even close to be enough, but he’ll take whatever he can at this point.  
Then come the blankets, heavy and woollen, and he’s starting to shiver even more, his body reacting to the rising temperature, when he feels a heavy body climb on the bed and gather him into his arms. He flinches, tensing, and Aziraphale keeps him still with his whole strength. Which, seen Crowley’s weakened state, could be a bit too much. He groans in the angel’s grip and feels those constricting arms loosen a bit, letting him breathe easier. So much for the Serpent of Eden. Aziraphale’s arms are two fucking boa constrictors.  
“Sorry, dear” Aziraphale whispers. His left hand is in Crowley’s hair, and Crowley is shocked by the tenderness the angel is treating him with “I just need to bring up your temperature, and this is the best way”  
“Oh. Sssssure”  
He tries to settle in Aziraphale’s arms, still a bit sceptic about the whole situation, and hears the angel huff.  
“Crowley, relax, will you? I’m not going to hurt you, I told you already”  
“Not that, angel. Not...you”  
“Then what is it? Are you hurt somewhere else?”  
Aziraphale loosens his grip to look at his face and Crowley keeps silent, looking everywhere but at him. No, angel, he’d like to say. It’s just that it’s been ages since someone touched me without hurting me, I’m just not used to that.  
“’m fffffine” He chokes out, but he knows that the angel can feel his distress.  
“You sure, dear?”  
Crowley shrugs and looks down at the blankets. At the walls. At the ceiling. There is something he’s not telling him but he won’t force him, wouldn’t be right. So, if the vice grip he has around the demon’s shoulders becomes more like a comforting hug, who can really complain?


	14. My skin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, I was inspired by this beautiful, sweet and funny fanart by Kiingbiing on Instagram (go and visit the profile, it's a damn order) and I just had to write something about it. So, I gave it the most beautiful and delicate song I could think about.
> 
> “Are you alright, dearest? I’m still surprised you don’t know how to skate”  
“Mmmmf” Crowley grumbles as Aziraphale helps him up, skates threatening his very own life “Shut up and don’t make me fall, angel”

I've been treated so wrong  
I've been treated so long  
As if I'm becoming untouchable  
I'm the slow dying flower  
In the frost killing hour  
Sweet turning sour and untouchable

Oh, I need the darkness  
The sweetness  
The sadness  
The weakness  
Oh, I need this  
I need a lullaby  
A kiss good night  
Angel sweet love of my life  
Oh, I need this

Natalie Merchant - My skin

Tip number one to date a snake, or something similar: never invite them to visit cold places, they won’t like them. Tip number two: should you decide to invite them to visit cold places, always check their clothing. Snakes are stylish, but they tend to forsake their health in favour of fashion. Not exactly smart. Tip number three: before bringing them to an ice skate rink, ask them if they can actually skate. Tip number four: should the answer be no, but should they be inclined to try, keep your ice skating snake close, because falling face first on the ice is painful, degrading and awfully cold.  
Now, if you follow all these advices your date should go perfectly smooth. And you can say everything about Aziraphale (as long as Crowley doesn’t hear you) but you can’t say that he isn’t provident. His favourite demon, the snake we were talking about, had just awoken from a short nap so, maybe, it was a good time to ask him to accompany him somewhere. Maybe. He looked coherent enough, at least.  
“Dear” Aziraphale called putting down his book “Would you accompany me to the ice skating rink? I’ve heard it’s really nice, and the food trucks seem to be simply divine”  
Crowley had squinted at him, still half buried in his blanket nest. The idea of going out in the cold didn’t appeal to him like, at all, but he could wear the new black parka that Aziraphale had gifted him (tip number two, remember) so he wouldn’t get THAT cold, right? And, anyway, Aziraphale was looking at him with such enthusiasm (manipulative bastard) that denying him such a simple wish would have been pure cruelty. And he was evil and cunning (or so he liked to think) but not cruel. There was still a problem, anyway.  
“I can’t skate, angel”  
If possible, Aziraphale’s smile grew even more angelic.  
“Of course you can” He answered “You just don’t know how. I’ll teach you”  
“And since when you know how to skate?” Crowley asked narrowing his gaze, even if the mental image of his angel ice skating was really, really tempting.  
“Oh, since forever love. I just haven’t indulged in a while”  
“Ssssure. A pretty long while” He hissed, eyeing him with an arched eyebrow, blankets still on his lap. Aziraphale just smiled again, innocent as ever, and he knew he was done for.  
-  
So, they’re at the rink and Aziraphale has his skates already on while Crowley is still fumbling with the laces, fingers stiff from the cold. The black parka is doing its job egregiously, but his hands feel frozen even with the leather gloves he’s wearing. He can only hope to get warmer once he starts moving, but to be honest he fears he’ll fall on his ass more often than not. He eyes the ice, and wishes it would melt. Transform in a warm beach. Vanish, disappear, whatever. No such luck. Aziraphale smiles when he’s finally done and offers him his hand, helping him to take the few steps that separate him from (probably) one of the worst ideas he’s ever had and, once he’s on the ice, Crowley feels his world turn upside down, his left leg betrays him and, just as he thought, he finds himself on his ass right at the entrance of the rink. He stays down, dazed. He didn’t even manage to skate for ten seconds and he’s already fallen, for fuck’s sake. Aziraphale is next to him, trying not to laugh, but he starts giggling once he’s sure that his demon isn’t hurt.  
“Are you alright, dearest? I’m still surprised you don’t know how to skate”  
“Mmmmf” Crowley grumbles as Aziraphale helps him up, skates threatening his very own life “Shut up and don’t make me fall, angel”  
Something changes in Aziraphale’s eyes, and the grip he has around Crowley’s waist gets more firm, possessive.  
“Never” He growls, and gets closer to the demon’s face “I’ll never let you fall, love. Never. I’ll show you how when we’ll be back home”  
Perfect. Now Crowley is cold AND horny.   
Aziraphale smirks and releases him, still keeping a firm hold on his hands, and guides him around the rink. After a while Crowley gets the gist of it and tries on his own, managing a whole round without kissing the ice after a few tries. He looks up from his feet, the tip of his tongue peaking out from his lips in concentration, and Aziraphale looks so delighted that he tries to run to him with the idea of sweeping him up. He falls flat on his face after just two strides, and in the end is the angel that scoops him up and kisses him, laughing like crazy.  
-  
“I think you should take a warm shower, love” Aziraphale suggests when they get home, as soon as Crowley slides out of his gloves. His fingers are red form the cold, and he can’t really feel his face. A warm shower sounds marvellous, but he still hasn’t forgotten Aziraphale’s words from back in the rink, and he doesn’t know what to do with that. He feels a bit like a prey, but he doesn’t mind it as long as Aziraphale gets to play the lion. He nods and kisses his angel’s cold cheek before going to the bathroom, snaps his clothes away, miracling them in the exact place they have to be, and enters the shower.  
Obviously, as soon as he’s inside and his back is turned to the entrance, he feels two strong arms encircle his waist, one going down between his legs and one climbing up to play with one still half frozen nipple. Aziraphale’s forearms keeps him flushed against the angel’s naked chest, and he freezes. He has miracled himself inside the shower to take him by surprise. The bastard.   
He tires to turn around and reciprocate, but Aziraphale pins him against the cold, blue tiles and he has to suppress a shiver. He doesn’t know if it’s the cold seeping in the skin of his arms from the tiles, or the sensation of the angel using his strength to keep him still, but he’s not complaining.  
“Shhh, love” Aziraphale whispers against his neck, and he shivers again “I’ve got you. I won’t let you fall again. Not anymore. Not on my watch”.  
Crowley’s breathing hitches at that and his body gives up on him, deciding to let Aziraphale do whatever he wants with him on its own volition. Aziraphale feels that and smiles, leaving a strip of kisses and small bites all along Crowley’s shoulders. The demon is using his forearms as support for his head as Aziraphale keeps on stroking him with one hand, the other roaming around, twisting a nipple or clutching at his red hair. He’s getting close, but he doesn’t want to come like this. He wants to feel his angel inside. He needs to feel Aziraphale, all of him. His hands feel amazing, but aren’t enough: he wants all of him. Wants, and will never stop wanting.   
Crowley tries to ask Aziraphale to stop and move things forward, maybe in bed, but the angel bites his neck and the demon’s knees buckle, his head falls back on the angel’s shoulder, his hair become red strings flowing down Aziraphale’s chest. Aziraphale has to catch him winding an arm around his heaving chest, hand still moving between his legs, and smiles.  
“Think we could move this in bed, love?”  
He whispers in Crowley’s ear and well, he must be a mind reader, then.  
-  
Aziraphale snaps his fingers as soon as Crowley nods, frantic, and they’re both in bed, dry and naked. Crowley is sprawled under him, and he’s never seen anything more beautiful: his chest is heaving with uneven breaths, long hair forming a flaming halo around his head while his cock is already leaking against his stomach. Aziraphale works him open with a miraculously wet finger, the other hand pinning the demon’s wrist above his head. Crowley shuts his eyes and bites his bottom lip as Aziraphale inserts the second finger, making him arch his back and open his mouth in a silent scream as he finds his prostate and starts stroking. Crowley has tears in his eyes and, when Aziraphale slides inside and closes his arms around him, they start falling. The angel stills, kissing them away, and waits for his demon’s nod to start moving.  
Now, you might be inclined to think that demons like it rough, and even Crowley doesn’t mind it sometimes, but the truth is that he prefers it slow, sweet and gentle. He’s had enough roughness in his life, and doesn’t really need anymore of that: Aziraphale knows, of course, and drags every movement for as long as possible, kisses every visible inch of skin, worships the demon’s body and soul with words and love, caresses his neck, his hair and the smooth skin of his sides, lets his tongue swirl around jutting hipbones. He keeps a rhythm that, though not frantic nor quick, manages to sweep Crowley away with every drag and pull, and Crowley’s body answers arching against his chest, hands scrambling again the headrest, eyes still shut and mouth still open, toes curling on the red comforter (yes, Crowley choose it. Aziraphale wanted to buy a white one, but it felt a bit too hospital-ish to the demon, so red it was).  
One of Aziraphale’s hand is lost in his hair, the other keeps him close pressing his body against the angel’s chest, strong fingers splayed in the middle of his back, and it’s the best feeling in the world to Crowley. He feels caged in Aziraphale’s arms, he feels alive, safe and warm. He feels fucking loved, and the thought alone is enough to make him lose his grip on his emotions, tears leaking from the corner of his eyes all over again. He covers his eyes with one arm, and grips the angel’s arm with the other hand.  
Aziraphale knows that Crowley is alright, he’s fine, just overwhelmed. He’s not hurting him. But he stops anyway to look down at him finding him flushed, sweaty and dishevelled. He kisses his forehead, then the wrist he keeps over his eyes and stops there with his lips pressing small kisses along his arm.  
“I’ll never let you fall” He says, and Crowley lifts his arm to look at him, eyes huge and vulnerable. How could She deem him unlovable, unredeemable and unholy is beyond Aziraphale’s comprehension: this demon, this being he loves with all of himself, is the most sacred living thing in the whole universe to him, and he’d die before letting something bad befall him. You think you know protectiveness?   
Ha.  
You don’t.  
Aziraphale waits for Crowley to nod and starts moving again, while Crowley throws his head backwards offering the angel his throat. It’s long, and pale, and beautiful, and working around air as the demon sobs, one hand on his mouth to stifle his cries and his tears. Aziraphale kisses him then, long and sweet, and swallows his sobs as they both come.   
“I’ll never let you fall” He repeats against Crowley’s skin as the demon tries to even his breaths. And it’s a promise, it’s his new mantra, sacred as a prayer. “I’ll never let you fall”.  
Crowley nods and kisses him, fierce and desperate, tasting of salty tears and salty sweat.


	15. Nearly forgot my broken heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So tell me, love” He said, stressing the last word “Why was Heaven so bad for you? I mean, you know about my experience with the place, but you never spoke about yours”

And I nearly forgot my broken heart  
It's taking me miles away

Chris Cornell - Nearly forgot my broken heart

Crowley is easily pissed off, but making him mad is pretty difficult. Goes without saying that, when it happens, you better be somewhere else. Aziraphale was there more than once and oh, how he wished he wasn’t. It was like witnessing the explosion of a long sleeping volcano with the only difference that, if Crowley tended do be loud if simply pissed, his rage was silent and cold, sharp as a blade, and absolutely terrifying.  
All it took was a: “Oh, dear. You have no idea how tiring Heaven could be” and, in a second, Crowley’s mood had switched from relaxed to sour and, in the end, deeply angry. Honestly speaking Crowley’s anger never lasted much, and it was a good thing since it was so destructive and self-destructive: he tended to forgive pretty quickly, everyone but himself. Oh, he could hate himself for centuries. In a way, he’d been doing that since forever. His forgiveness was probably what was left of his angelic nature.  
Anyway.  
That simple string of words was enough to destroy his composure, and he froze on the spot while going to the kitchen to get some more wine. They were on their way to get wasted and alcohol tended to relax him, but he felt his back tense and tried to stop his anger from surfacing. He didn’t want his wrath to manifest in front of Aziraphale, didn’t want to get so cold again, so remorseless and pained. He didn’t want to vent, nor to give his angel the silent treatment for the century to come. It wasn’t Aziraphale’s fault. So, what he did was take a good number of slow, deep breaths and turn around, deciding to miracle the wine in the room instead of taking the trip to the next room. The similitude to Jeshua’s last supper didn’t escape him.   
“What do you mean?” He asked, sitting next to the angel and crossing his legs, swishing around his newly filled glass. He looked at the wine, checking the halo it left behind: lots of drops meant that the wine was highly alcoholic, and that italian red….hm. Let’s say that it was the right kind of gradation for such a conversation.  
Aziraphale looked at him, and Crowley felt scrutinized. His angel was smarter than most, and you should always remember to never underestimate every small gaze he threw around. He collected information, like that, and kept them inside for future use. You never knew what he could come up with, sometimes.  
Crowley sobered up, getting ready to listen, and Aziraphale did the same after a few seconds more of observing the demon. They both grimaced, a sour taste lingering on their tongues, and Crowley felt pinned down by a frighteningly intense blue gaze. Aziraphale took a deep breath and cleared his throat, then sipped his wine.  
“I’m sorry” He offered, and Crowley just kept silent, looking at him “Of course you know how tiring and heavy, and cruel, Heaven can be. I wasn’t thinking straight”  
Crowley felt himself smile, and soon a relieved smile mirrored his own on the angel’s lips.   
“Of course you weren’t thinking straight, you were piss drunk”  
The angel had the decency to look guilty for a second, but glared soon after.  
“Look who’s talking”  
Crowley couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him: it was a full body laugh, one of those Aziraphale loved so much, and the angel basked in his demon’s happiness. Crowley laughed a bit more. It felt good, after all that tension.  
“So tell me, love” He said, stressing the last word “Why was Heaven so bad for you? I mean, you know about my experience with the place, but you never spoke about yours”  
Aziraphale blushed at the endearment: Crowley never used that word as a noun, just as a verb. He said it was a waste of such an important concept. As soon as he registered the question, though, his smile fell. If he was to be honest he didn’t know where to start, really. It wasn’t easy, to pinpoint the exact moment the first doubt put roots in his mind. He had never lost his faith in Her, and probably that’s why he still hadn’t joined the fallen hosts, but Heaven. God. Heaven and all of its cumbersome bureaucracy and its narrow minded inhabitants were something else entirely. How could he believe in that?  
The great flood, maybe. That had made his faith in Her waver. But he was still a firm believer in the Ineffable Plan, back then, and that might be what saved him from taking a mighty tumble down from the highest...heavens, actually.  
So, what was it?  
“They are just...” He started, and had to stop to gather his thoughts. Crowley was looking at him, attentive, elbows on his knees and glass of wine firmly in his grasp “Crowley, how can they think they’re right in what they do? They’re self absorbed and arrogant. They think themselves better than humans, just like Lucifer did once. Remember?”  
Oh, of course Crowley remembered. He shivered in the warm room.   
“So, what’s the difference really? Lucifer was cast out because he wouldn’t kneel to humanity, love them more than Her, and yet there they are, using people and letting them die mercilessly for a whim. Thinking them stupid when, in reality, humans are capable of such wonders. Why don’t they all fall, Crowley? Why did you and Lucifer had to fall, and why are them still up there?” He concluded, index fingers pointing upwards. Crowley whistled.  
“Whoa, angel. This isn’t your usual Sunday Night Conversation” He answered, eyes widening “To be precise we fell because we wanted free will too, and were dumb enough to go and ask for it. Should have done like you, taking it and keeping it a secret. You’re a real demon inside” He added with a wink, making Aziraphale smile and blush again.  
“Anyway. Your colleagues are right wankers and enormous dicks, but dicks that know their places. They never yearned for something more, never got curious, never asked questions. I don’t know” He yawned, stretching on the couch and letting one arm fall around Aziraphale’s shoulders “Maybe that’s why they didn’t fall”  
Aziraphale nodded, pensive, and melted against Crowley’s side.  
“But I was talking about you, angel” The demon kept on, hunching around the angel and booping his nose “What made it so bad for you?”  
Aziraphale’s eyes crossed, trying to look at the offending finger still planted on his nose, then scoffed and waved it away. Crowley snickered.  
“I never fit in”  
“Oh, this is something I can completely understand” The demon left his nose alone but kept him plastered against his side. Aziraphale went on.  
“I was never...perfect. Not like them. Not strong. Not ruthless. Not...single minded”  
Crowley felt a new spark of anger ignite his whole body. Not strong. Not perfect. How dare they. His angel wasn’t perfect because no one of them was, demons included, but strong? Oh, he’d show them how strong Aziraphale could be. He survived them all, didn’t he? And here he was, alive and free. Damn them all to Hell.  
“Did they make you feel bad for this?”   
He growled, and Aziraphale shrugged.  
“I don’t even know anymore”  
Crowley felt his rage rise and smashed the angel against his ribcage.  
“Angel it’ssss important” He hissed, eyes going completely gold “Did they make you feel bad for it? Do you still feel bad for it?”  
Aziraphale looked at him, pondering. He could lie, and Crowley would calm down, but his demon knew him too well to fall for it. He deserved the truth so, in the end, he just nodded. Gaze on the floor.  
“Sometimes” He admitted “It depends. I’ve god my bad days love, you know that”  
“Holy fuck, angel! How comes you never told me?” Crowley jumped up, pacing in front of the couch in just his black socks and skinny jeans, goosebumps rising on his bare chest, and Aziraphale was so shocked by his outburst he didn’t even call him out on his blasphemy. Holy fuck. Hm. Interesting concept, anyway.  
“Are you even listening to me, Aziraphale?”  
Aziraphale turned towards the demon and coughed.  
“Sorry. I was thinking about how holy could a well...a fuck be”  
“You’re kidding” Crowley’s jaw looked unhinged “Are you kidding? This is bloody serious, Aziraphale! Fuck!” He roared, hands tangled in his hair “I feel like skinning them all alive and make them into shoes, like that guy from that BBC show! Fuck!”  
He fell on his knees in front of the angel, hands gripping his forearms.  
“You don’t...shit. Aziraphale” He looked flustered and so, so pissed. His fangs were actually showing “Don’t listen to them. Not a word. Don’t believe them. What they don’t like is what makes you fucking you, angel. And I love you as you are, right? I bloody love you, your stubbornness, your softness, your weird ideas and your imperfections. Fuck them” He growled, hiding his face in Aziraphale’s belly, letting the angel play with his air “Fuck them. And fuck me”  
Aziraphale stilled, then laughed.  
“Well, love. If you insist. A holy fuck indeed”  
Crowley’s head shoot up from his lap.  
“I was bloody serious, Aziraphale!” He cried “You’ll be the death of me, angel. Fucking death of fucking me”  
“Well, I thought the last part was clear”  
“Oh, sssshut up” Crowley groaned “And, since we’re here, do it already!”


	16. Gravity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lord, he’s hurt him so much, and so many times he’s lost count. He wanted to stop him from leaving every time, beg him to stay, tell him he loves him too, would do everything for him. But he’s been a coward every time, and now it looks like Crowley can’t take it anymore, and feels safer when he can keep his distance. He understands.

And I'll be the river  
You'll be the rain  
You'll be the rumble  
I'll be the train  
I'll be the sound  
You'll be the sight  
You'll be the clock strike  
I'll be the midnight

Gravity - Kenny Wayne Shepherd

In six millennia of knowing each other the fights they've had have been...a lot. Some happened for a reason they both still remember, some over something very stupid and some...well. Who the heck knows what they were fighting about. As Crowley always says: if you can’t remember it, it means it wasn’t important. Sure, he forgot to wake up for a whole century, but that’s beside the point. And the point is, in this case, that Aziraphale and him fight. A lot. Over stupid things and over monumentally important ones.  
But there is one thing that is constantly there like a cold undercurrent, and it’s always the same: Crowley tries to get closer, and not necessarily in a physical way, and Aziraphale rejects him every. Single. Time. The demon didn’t really think too much about it in the beginning: they were an angel and a demon, after all. Nothing in common to be found. But then, with the passing millennia, he has started to see Aziraphale as a friend and, Satan, how he needs one.  
The angel is lonely too, the telltale signs are all there: he’s touch starved, lights up like a fucking bulb for every tiny act of gentleness Crowley reserves him and is overenthusiastic every time Crowley proposes a way to spend some time together. Angels are social creatures by nature, and Aziraphale isn’t just alone, on Earth: he’s practically abandoned. Crowley feels lonely too, sometimes, but he usually doesn’t mind his solitude: he’s come to crave it after the overpopulated, cramped corridors of Hell. If he has to be completely honest he has started to crave company only after having met Aziraphale on the walls of Eden: he didn’t really care about company, before, but now it’s different. Now he knows that having company doesn’t have to mean annoyance or pain: it can be pleasurable too, even funny and enjoyable. And now he needs it. He’d need it like air, if only he had to breathe to survive.  
He doesn’t understand Aziraphale’s reasoning, at first: why does the angel refuse to acknowledge their friendship when it’s obvious that he craves it just as deeply as he does? It makes no sense. He tries and tries again, and there are lunches in Rome and on the misty hills on Celtic Britain, they meet for drinks in Egypt and in ancient Greece, go to the theatre in Weimar Germany, to the Globe in London and to the Fenice in Venice, see Fellini’s movies in Italy, meet Edgar Allan Poe for a chat in Baltimore and, still, Aziraphale keeps his distance. It takes him a while to understand it but he gets it in Rome, sitting in front of an angel that is literally slurping down a whole plate of oysters: Aziraphale is afraid. Heaven must have really worsened if the angel is so scared and, honestly, it pisses Crowley off quite a lot. The guy must be one of the best, if not the best, of the whole angelic lot, and they should just leave him alone and mind their own feathery business. He knows it doesn’t really work like that, so he doesn’t insist.  
They create the Arrangement and meet, meet and meet and it’s still the same, old story: Aziraphale pretends not to know him when they see each other at the Globe, and it doesn’t really hurt. He says to Leonardo Da Vinci that he has no idea who the red haired man he wants as a model is, and it starts burning. He explains to Poe that they just met, never seen him before, and it hurts a bit. But Crowley feels really offended just after Aziraphale calls what they have “fraternizing”, when he doesn’t trust him with the holy water. He explodes then, and regrets it for a whole century. He knows that Aziraphale acts like that because their relationship is the epitome of danger but, for fuck sake, he could at least admit that they’re friends when they’re alone and sure that no one is listening! It makes him feel even more lonely, and it gets worse every time the angel says that they’re merely acquaintances, hereditary enemies, barely fraternizing. It’s agonizing, and he can’t even deny it anymore or stop himself from caring or trying to get closer. Just a bit.  
-  
When they fight in the park, right before Armageddon, Aziraphale tells him “I don’t even like you” and Crowley feels something crack in his chest. The world is fucking ending, he could at least admit that they care for each other! But no, he’s still chained to his faith in the bloody Ineffable Plan, and what he manages to say is so cruel that it carves a hole somewhere inside the demon and leaves him empty, throbbing with the need for something it looks like he’ll never get. He should stop, then and there, but he tries one last time: he asks the angel to run with him to Alpha Centauri and panics when Aziraphale refuses. He says something horrible, then, something awful that still makes him feel ashamed, and flies.  
The shop burns, then, and Crowley feels dead too. He drinks until he can’t think anymore, and it’s honestly a huge amount of alcohol, then saves the world with the (un)dead angel, the should be but won’t be Antichrist, the witch and a bunch of other people, survives Satan and the trial Heaven and Hell wanted to kill them with...and then he doesn’t really know what to do with himself. He doesn’t know where he stands with the angel, what he means to Aziraphale, but he perfectly knows what Aziraphale means to him. He’s pretty much everything, the only good thing, the only constant in 6000 years, the only person (or angel) that gave him a valid motivation to get out of bed during one of his bad days. He doesn’t know how to call this, or even if it has a name, but it’s killing him.  
-  
Aziraphale knows he has hurt Crowley. He’s hurt him so much, so many times. He told him they were just fraternizing, and the demon still saved him and his books from the Nazis and a collapsed church. He entered a church for him, nonetheless! He rejected him in the Sixties, and Crowley still asked him to run with him from Armageddon, saved them stopping time, cried for him when he thought him gone. Crowley didn’t deserve to fall, and he doesn’t deserve to suffer like that: now that all is said and done, and that the world is safe, he’s afraid of having pushed the demon away one too many times. Crowley keeps his distance, doesn’t even try to touch him anymore, and he suffers for it. He knows it’s selfish: you can't expect someone to keep on coming back after 6000 years of rejection.  
Every time Crowley left after one of their fights he knew he was hurting the only being that didn’t deserve it, maybe even the only one that loved him for himself, or despite himself, and he felt terrible for it. Still feels terrible for it. He can still see Crowley’s face crumble when he refused to leave for Alpha Centauri, his dejected expression when he told him he was going too fast. Him, invisible, sitting in front of his crying friend just a few hours before the supposed end of the World. Lord, he’s hurt him so much and so many times he’s lost count. He wanted to stop him from leaving every time, beg him to stay, tell him he loved him too, would have done everything for him. But he’s been a coward every time, and now it looks like Crowley can’t take it anymore, and feels safer when he can keep his distance. He understands.  
But it ends now. He’s been selfish, stupid and cruel, he’s been a coward, and he wants Crowley to know this. He needs Crowley to know this.  
-  
He stopped even trying: if the angel can’t give him friendship, or love, or whatever then so be it. He’ll take what Aziraphale is willing to give, even if it’s going to hurt. It’s pathetic, but he can’t help it. Some demon, hm?  
The angel has called, asking if he felt like going to the park for a walk and, as always, he said yes. Can’t say no to Aziraphale, never could. He was such a pining idiot.  
So, now, they’re standing at the pond, looking at the ducks, when Aziraphale gathers his courage and takes Crowley’s hand.  
Crowley freezes and then recoils, retracting his hand as if burned and taking a step back. It looks like he forgot to breathe: his chest is so still, his golden eyes look huge behind his lenses. Then forces a smile and clears his throat, starting to talk again as if nothing happened.  
Aziraphale can’t let it go. He won’t. He doesn’t. As soon as he can he takes Crowley’s hand again, and grips it tighter when the demon tries to disentangle his fingers. He goes so far as brushing his thumb over Crowley’s palm. And that’s what shatters the demon.  
Crowley’s breathing hitches and he covers his eyes with his free hand, tumbling backwards until his legs hit a bench and he crumbles on it, dragging Aziraphale down.  
“What are you doing, angel?”  
He sounds so distressed, Aziraphale notices, and it’s his fault. He did this, he made Crowley suffer for all those years and these are the results. The demon’s grip on his hand is white knuckled now, as if he’s afraid that Aziraphale will change his mind and reject him again.  
“What I should have done ages ago, dear” He answers kissing the demon’s knuckles one by one, and Crowley flinches “I’m so sorry, Crowley. So very sorry”.  
Crowley just swallows and shakes his head, throat working and that damned hand still covering his eyes, pushing his glasses against his face. Aziraphale lifts his fingers and pulls it down.  
“Will you look at me, love?”  
Crowley starts at the endearment but complies, his mouth a thin line of anxiety on a too pale face, and Aziraphale knows he has to do something or he will lose him forever, and he wouldn’t survive it. He didn’t save the world just to lose Crowley, he saved the world to live with Crowley, and now has to earn it somehow. The demon is still looking at him, terrified.  
“I’ve been a coward” He starts, and feels Crowley flinch at every single word “I made you suffer. I hurt you so much”.  
“It’s fine, angel” Crowley tries to say, but he’s stopped by Aziraphale’s index finger on his lips.  
“Hush, love. Let me finish, then you’ll be free to decide what to do with me”  
If possible Crowley’s eyes widen even more, but he nods anyway. Aziraphale takes a deep breath and plunges.  
“I love you” He blurts out “I love you, Crowley, and not because I’m an angel and I have to love every living thing. I love you because of you, ad you alone”  
Crowley is frozen and his glasses must have slipped down his nose at some point, because his eyes are half visible now. He hasn’t blinked in a while, and his pupils are mere slits lost in golden irises.  
“No” He croaks, and Aziraphale’s heart stops “No, angel. I can’t take it. You don’t...you can’t. Aziraphale, you can’t. You don’t mean it, angel. If you don’t mean it...I can’t”.  
His breath quickens and he’s crying now, but it’s a silent thing: just tears slowly making their way down his face. It breaks Aziraphale’s heart.  
“Of course I mean it, love” He swears reaching for Crowley and letting him hide his wet face against his chest “Of course I do. I’ve been loving you for ages. Couldn’t lie about it”  
Crowley lets out a sob against the angel’s sweater then sits back on the bench, looking upwards and drying his eyes.  
“Ages” He repeats “Ages? How long?”  
“I don’t know” Aziraphale looks sheepish, hands on his knees “A long time”  
The demon nods, eyes on the grass in front on his feet, and his face darkens.  
“Why...fuck, Angel. You never said a thing. Kept me away. It hurt, Aziraphale. Why?”  
The angel shakes his head and takes a deep breath. He expected the question, but answering doesn’t feel easy anyway.  
“I was scared, Crowley. I was scared of what Heaven might do to me, but I was terrorized by what they could do to you. I would have been punished, but you?” He turns around and his eyes are so wide and terrified “They would have tortured you. Destroyed you. You would have...vanished. I couldn’t bear it, I couldn’t take it. Eternity without you would have been dreadful.”  
Crowley keeps silent for a while, after that, thinking about it. Than swallows and bites his lips.  
“You mean it?” He asks again, disbelieving “Are you really sure, angel? Because if you aren’t I won’t be angry, but I couldn’t take it. Couldn’t take it should you change your mind after all this”  
Aziraphale should feel offended, maybe, but he has no right to do so: he’s been the one that has been toppling between loving and rejecting the demon, so it’s only natural for Crowley to be this scared. He doesn’t know what to say. Repeating those three words doesn’t feel enough, so he does the only thing that feels right.  
“Look at me, dearest” He asks and, when Crowley complies, he cups his face with both hands. Their first kiss is salty from Crowley’s tears, and the demon’s eyes stay open for the whole time, making sure he’s really there, it’s really happening, and this isn’t some absurd dream he will wake up alone from.  
“I’m sure” Aziraphale whispers when they break the kiss, forehead against the demon’s, and Crowley is still stunned, looking at him like some animal caught in the headlights.  
“I...fuck, angel”  
“Well said, dear”  
Crowley’s jaw falls and his face looks so outraged it makes Aziraphale laugh.  
“Sure, laugh” He hears Crowley grumble, and a few seconds later he gets silenced by a much deeper, much heated kiss.  
Looks like they’ll have to move things from that bench to the bedroom, then.


	17. Skin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anyway, as you can imagine, Crowley managed to put his hands on a pair of dark lenses during the Roman Empire, and never stopped wearing them ever since. They have a double purpose: shield his eyes from the sun that hurts his snake pupils, and hide his eyes from everyone else. And himself, since humans created mirrors: he had never seen his eyes with such clarity before, only glimpsed at reflections in rivers or ponds.

Come into focus  
Step out of the shadows  
It's a losing battle  
There's no need to be ashamed  
'Cause they don't even know you  
All they see is scars  
They don't see the angel  
Living in your heart  
Let them find the real you  
Buried deep within  
Let them know with all you've got  
That you are not your skin

Skin - Sixx A.M.

Trivia time: the first sunglasses were created by Inuit people to protect their eyes from the blinding reverb of the sun on snow and ice. They weren’t really sunglasses, more like wooden masks with holes, but served their purpose. Then came the Romans and the Chinese, that built glasses with smoked lenses to make the judge seem impartial during trials in the XII century. Then the Venetians and Murano and, in 1929, they were finally commercialized all around the world by Sam Foster.  
Anyway, as you can imagine, Crowley managed to put his hands on a pair of dark lenses during the Roman Empire, and never stopped wearing them ever since. They have a double purpose: shield his eyes from the sun that hurts his snake pupils, and hide his eyes from everyone else. And himself, since humans created mirrors: he had never seen his eyes with such clarity before, only glimpsed at reflections in rivers or ponds. He balked the first time he saw them: they were scary and intimidating, a clear reminder of what he was and what he could never be again, and they looked so different from Aziraphale’s blue eyes. He didn’t really mind them, honestly, but thought that they would remind the angel of their supposed rivalry and tried to cover them from then on. He shielded them with his hands, or he would let long, red hair fall over them. He didn’t really know why, he just didn’t want Aziraphale to look at him and see the Enemy, something tainted, defiled and unworthy of his time.  
Another thing that he tried to keep secret to the brink of exhaustion were his scales: his back sported quite the big portion of black scaled skin and, when he was very, very stressed they tended to randomly appear in other casual spots all over his body. He ran from more than one of their lunch and dinner dates during the whole Arrangement thing because he didn’t want Aziraphale to see them or, in the unfortunate case he’d seen them already, he didn’t want him to have to look at them for too long.  
Screw it, alright? He could pretend as much as he wanted but he felt ashamed of his appearance, of his absolutely unchangeable eyes and scaly flesh: he could change everything but what he really wanted to. Oh, how it sucked.  
His demonic self was as far as possible from Aziraphale’s perfect soul and features, and it made him feel unworthy of the angel’s presence. Why did the angel insist on meeting with him, share with such a vile creature his time and space, was beyond him. Not that he was complaining, mind you: it was just...incomprehensible.  
Then, one day, Aziraphale arrived to their lunch with a neatly wrapped gift for him, white and silver wrapping paper and an elegant blue ribbon. Crowley had looked at the rectangular object with a bit of perplexity before accepting it, unwrapping the gift without trashing the packaging. There where a pair of sunglasses inside, round lenses with small lateral shields that would protect his eyes from the world. And the world from them. He forced a smile and slid them on, hiding his old pair in one of his jacket pocket, and looked up at the angel.  
“How do I look?” He asked, unable to completely hide his nervousness and heartbreak and, when the angel smiled and answered “Dashing, my dear” he felt his chest give up. He kept his smile on and pulled his grey scarf tighter around his neck to hide the scales he felt rising there, gave Aziraphale a ride back home trying to drive less like a maniac and more like a sensible demon, and hid in his flat for a whole week, screaming at his plants and at his face in the mirror, asking a young Ficus why Aziraphale had not only given him a pair of sunglasses, he gave him a pair of sunglasses with fucking shields all around his eyes, so he wouldn’t have to see them at all.  
He emerged from his exile only because the angel called. Such a pining idiot, hm?  
So he wore his best clothes (which were frighteningly similar to what he wore everyday) and went on another lunch with his new sunglasses on.  
“Oh dear, they really look good on you. Stylish and intimidating” Aziraphale said, admired, as soon as he arrived “I only wish I could see your eyes more. They’re so lovely”.  
Crowley choked and froze, one foot on the concrete outside the restaurant and one inside, like a cat that can’t decide whether he’d like to stay inside or get out for a walk.  
“What” He croaked to Aziraphale’s back, the angel already reaching their table. Aziraphale turned around at that, his smile turning into a worried grimace.  
“Crowley, dear. Are you alright?”  
He couldn’t answer. Aziraphale’s hands were checking his temperature and cupping his face, and he was just standing there like an idiot keeping the door open, pissing everyone off with the cold air he was letting in.  
“Crowley?” Aziraphale called him again, keeping him steady with his hands under his elbows, “Are you alright dear boy? Do you need to go home?”  
Crowley looked at the angel, throat working, and felt stupid. The stupidest stupid on Earth. Had he really misunderstood more than 6000 years of Aziraphale’s thoughts about his eyes? And himself, in general? Had he really been so inconsiderate as to believe that his angel would care so much about appearances? Well, what should have he thought, anyway? He was a demon, a lowly creature, something to avoid at all cost: it was just how things were.  
Well not for this strange angel in front of him, evidently.  
He choked and swallowed, shaking his head.  
“I’m fine” He hummed, and had to clear his throat “Lead the way, angel”  
Aziraphale looked at him, his head slightly bent to the left, and seemed to study him for a couple of seconds before sighing and offering the demon his arm. Crowley took it more than gladly: Aziraphale had just swept him off his feet for the second time (the first had involved a flaming sword and the walls of Eden, nonetheless), and he needed the support.  
“So” Aziraphale started once they were seated, studying the menu “What do you feel like trying, dear? I heard they have an excellent selection of red wines”  
Crowley just looked at him, open mouthed and dumbfounded. Aziraphale furrowed his brows and cleared his throat.  
“Dear?”  
“Uh. Ah? Mmmmh. Red wine?”  
Aziraphale was starting to look worried. Damn. He had to recuperate.  
“Ngk. You choose, angel. Anything that goes well with what you’re eating is fine for me”  
“Are you sure you’re fine, Crowley?”  
Was he? Fuck, no. He’d just discovered that Aziraphale found his eyes lovely, for fuck sake, and his whole beliefs system had gone to Hell. No, he wasn’t fine. So, he obviously said: “I’m fine, angel. Really”.  
Aziraphale groaned, supporting his head with one hand under his chin, rolling his eyes. Blue. So, so blue.  
“Sometimes I wish you’d talk to me, you know?”  
“Uh. About what?”  
“About what’s going on in that head of yours” The angel answered, smiling to the waiter that brought him his steak and the bottle of red wine he had chosen for their lunch. Crowley found a sudden interest for his now filled glass and hid his face inside.  
“You wouldn’t like it in here” He muttered, index finger pointing at his hair “It’s messy, and not exactly welcoming”.  
“Even so” Aziraphale cleared his mouth with the white napkin, and Crowley couldn’t help but look at how his lips touched the fabric “I would love to know, dear. It can’t be that bad. After all, it’s you we’re talking about”  
“Ha. Very funny, angel”  
Crowley hunched on his chair, crossing his arms on his chest. Aziraphale looked at him, put off.  
“What do you mean?”  
“Come on, angel” Growled the demon “You know my head’s a mess. No need to rub it in my face”  
“Oh, my dear. I’m so sorry if I offended you, but I was being deadly serious. I hope you know it”  
Crowley turned to look at the corridor and dried his mouth on his napkin. He looked tense, Aziraphale noted. Ready to bolt.  
“No angel, don’t worry. Jusssst Overreacted. Ssssssorry”  
Aziraphale studied him again over the rim of his glass: Crowley’s hair was tied up in a ponytail that showed his neck and the few black scales he kept hidden in his shirt. It was a pity: they were beautiful in the angel’s eyes, a tribute to the real power of the demon, but he knew that showing them around would freak out too many people. He didn’t really feel convinced by Crowley’s assertion of being fine, but smiled anyway.  
“Don’t worry, dear. Oh, you should try this steak: it’s simply divine”  
Crowley just shook his head. He was being a dick, he knew, but he just couldn’t wrap his head around what was happening.  
“Think I’ll pass. Thanks”  
The angel nodded and reached for his hand, touching Crowley’s palm with his fingers. The demon’s eyes moved to Aziraphale’s manicured nails, but did nothing to avoid the touch.  
“Alright” Muttered the angel “What do you think if we finish this afternoon at my place, dear? I’ve got some whiskey I absolutely want you to try”  
Crowley shrugged.  
“Sure angel, why not”  
-  
He was drunk. He was so, so drunk. Aziraphale looked drunk too, only less. He was drunk...er. And the angel knew that when he was drunk he was prone to...confidence, let’s say. He simply lost his filter, and everything he said tended to be the absolute truth. Would he have been sober it would have scared him shitless, but he was drunk so he wasn’t thinking about it.  
“I didn’t think you liked my eyes” He slurred, and Aziraphale’s eyebrows rose.  
“Well, of course. I find them very...enticing.”  
“Enticing” He repeated “Enticing. Why give me those sunglasses, then?”  
“Because I know you like sunglasses, and I also know that the light hurts your eyes, Crowley. I still don’t understand why you insist on wearing them even when we’re alone, and there’s no sun, but I don’t have to understand everything. Do I?”  
He asked, turning around with a scared face. Crowley felt like laughing: the angel was genuinely asking if he really should understand everything, and it was so, so him. There was nothing more endearing than Aziraphale, really.  
“Oh, thank you!” Aziraphale smiled, and Crowley realized he must have said it out loud. He blinked and slid his sunglasses off.  
“Finally!” The angel cried pointing a finger at him “I missed your eyes, dear. It’s been ages since I saw them!”  
“Oh. Ahm. Sssssure. I thought you didn’t like them”  
Aziraphale choked on his drink.  
“Why on Earth would you think that?”  
“Beeeeecause they’re snakeish, and scary, and cold and creepy?” He answered, index finger pointing at his own face “Have you seen them, angel?”  
“Of course I have, dear! And they look stunning, absolutely stunning!”  
Aziraphale’s wine sloshed dangerously inside his glass, the angel was literally jumping up and down on his armchair.  
“Do...do they?”  
“Oh, yes Crowley” Aziraphale jumped one last time and ran up to him, kneeling in front of the sofa “In fact I’d be grateful if you’d stop wearing them when we’re alone and the light can’t hurt you”  
Oh fuck, thought Crowley, Aziraphale was way more drunk than he thought.  
“Angel, get up. You absolute...Aziraphale, please!” Crowley tried to force the angel to stand, but Aziraphale was unmoveable “Alright. Ok. I won’t wear them around you, when we’re alone and there’s not too much light. Happy?”  
“Very” The angel smiled, and Crowley’s heart rate spiked.  
“I’ve been such an idiot, angel”  
“Well, yes”  
“What? Shouldn’t you say something on the line of: oh no, dear. Not at all” Crowley finished in what was a very badly done impression of Aziraphale. Said angel, though, didn’t look impressed at all.  
“Of course you’ve been an idiot. How could you think I don’t like your eyes goes beyond my comprehension. You have such beautiful golden irises, Crowley”  
“I...you...fuck” Crowley planted his left hand on his face, blushing like crazy “I think I hate you, right now”  
“No, you don’t” Aziraphale sent him a knowing smile.  
“No” Crowley sighed, sunglasses forgotten on the table “No I don’t. Will never. Could never.”  
“I know”  
“Oh, of course you know” Crowley hissed, drinking straight from the bottle and drying his lips on his dark sleeve “You manipulative bastard”


	18. Not worthy-Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Sober up, love” He says.  
“Ngk. Don’t wanna”  
“Crowley” Aziraphale growls “Sober the fuck up”

So, my hand slipped and i wrote something really fucking long. I decided to split it in two part because I'm an evil bitch.

This is a real angstfest, have fun.

Rollin' and a rockin' on a late night  
Trying to beat the devil at a fist fight  
Looking for a friend in a bottle of red  
Making up a word that's never been said  
Waiting in line for the next fine  
Making up a rhyme but it don't rhyme  
Baby, I'm a loser at this game  
If you could see me now, you'd be ashamed of me  
Be ashamed of me  
Cause I'm not worthy of your love  
I'm barely keeping up  
Feels like every single day, all I ever do is say I'm sorry  
I guess that I'm not worthy of your love

Not worthy - Jack Savoretti

Aziraphale has quite the collection of funny memories with a drunk Crowley: you know how it works, alcohol is a social drug, it helps with conversation, and can be used to...untie tongues.   
Crowley has been tense for days, guarded and silent. It wasn’t strange during the Arrangement and the eleven years the preceded the Apocalypse that wasn’t, what with the constant anxiety and the need to watch his back 24/7, but now they’re free, they won, he should be much more relaxed. So what’s happening to him?  
And of course Crowley won’t talk about it, changing the subject every time Aziraphale tries to talk about what’s going on in that head of his, deflecting and distracting the angel with varying results. He can be very persuasive, as you can imagine. You don’t get to become the Serpent of Eden just like that. Sometimes he chalks up, shutting out Aziraphale completely, or pretends to have something to do, plants to scare, errands to make.   
Anyway: he won’t open up, and they’re both suffering because of that. Talking about feelings is not something they teach at demon school, apparently. He tries, sometimes, and Aziraphale sees him shutting himself down, words withering in his throat as he looks at him. Oh, Crowley looks at Aziraphale with such longing and desperation that the angel knows it has to be about him, but not knowing what’s wrong makes him a nervous wreck. Has he done something, has he inadvertently hurt his demon? Crowley is still the same around him, anyway, even with this newfound undercurrent of fear and silence, and it calms Aziraphale’s nerves down a bit.   
Not being able to talk, feeling forced to repress everything must be a consequence of the fall: he fell because he couldn’t keep his thoughts to himself, and now this is hurting Crowley, a lot, and it’s becoming obvious. He drinks more, even when he’s alone and, even if the angel knows it can’t technically damage him, it’s still worrying. He sleeps a lot but he’s always tired anyway, and seems to have lost the courage to ask Aziraphale to join him in bed, either with or without a book. The angel follows him all the same, and is taken by surprise by the desperate way Crowley clings to him. The demon wants him close, need him close, but still refuses to talk as Aziraphale tries to coax words out of him, fingers carding through red locks: Crowley hides his face in Aziraphale’s chest, and his silence sounds deafening.  
“What’s wrong, love? Can you tell me what’s hurting you so?”  
Crowley shakes his head, voice muffled against Aziraphale’s skin.  
“I’m fine, angel”  
“No dear, you’re not”  
Aziraphale’s fingers have to leave the demon’s head when Crowley lifts it, letting his left ear rest against the angel’s heart. Its sound soothes him, so strong and steady.  
“Don’t make me do it, angel. Please”.  
Please. Crowley is praying him to let it go, to let him suffer through this on his own, and Aziraphale could even concede him the space he wants if said suffering hadn’t been going on for so long. It seems unending, and Aziraphale can’t leave him alone when he’s like that, even if it’s Crowley himself that’s asking for it. So he shakes his head and kisses his hair, relishing in the small sigh that escapes Crowley’s lips.   
“I can’t do that”  
“Well, looks like you’ll have to”  
Crowley’s voice sounds cold as the demon shuts his eyes close. He’d sound like a petulant child if his shoulders weren’t shaking.  
-  
“Crowley, would you mind coming with me for a walk?”  
Aziraphale pokes his head in his demon’s study, and stops at Crowley’s faraway gaze. The demon is looking at the wall, deep in thoughts, and has to blink a couple of times to focus on the angel.   
“Uh? Ssssssure. A walk. Sure. When?”  
Aziraphale twists his hands, looking at him.  
“I was thinking...right now?”  
Crowley nods and swallows, eyes on his desk, fingers clenched on the rim of the dark wooden surface.  
“Of course. I’m...I’m coming, angel”  
Aziraphale smiles as Crowley gets up and moves to follow him: the angel offers him his arm, and Crowley takes it and brings it to his chest, curling around it. He looks so frail, Aziraphale thinks. So scared.  
“Love, what’s happening?” The angel tries to ask, but Crowley shakes his head and lets go of his arm, straightening his spine and doing his best to look normal.  
“It’s nothing, angel. Where are we going, hm?”  
-  
It’s no use asking, Aziraphale knows. He’s been trying for weeks, ad Crowley keeps on shutting him out. He gets defensive, sometimes even angry, but won’t utter a single word about what’s making him feel so sad, scared and nervous. Aziraphale tries to soothe him, but there’s only so much he can do. He feels...well, he feels like shit for taking advantage of Crowley’s vulnerability when he’s drunk, but he really doesn’t have a choice at this point, right?  
He comes home from an expedition to some new bakery with a small tray full of pastries that he needs Crowley to absolutely try, having left the demon immersed in a deep conversation with one of his potted plants, only to come back to a half drunk redhead sitting on the floor in front of the couch, on his way to get properly smashed. His first reaction would be to vanish all the alcohol in the room and dump Crowley in a tub full of cold water to make him sober up in the worst way possible, but it would be unnecessarily cruel. Crowley is like that because something is very wrong and has to be dealt with so, in the end, Aziraphale opts for putting the pastries down on the nearest free surface, approaching the demon as he would do with a spooked cat.  
“Are you quite alright, my dear?” He asks and, God, he’s been repeating the same question so many times. Crowley shrugs and lets his head loll on the cushions of the couch.   
“Hmmm. Angel.” He slurs “I’m great”  
“Oh, you really don’t look that” Aziraphale mutters without reaching Crowley’s ears. He takes the few steps that separate them and sits on the couch. After a few moments he slides down from it, ending up sitting on the floor next to the demon.  
“How many of those did you drink?” He asks, toying with an empty bottle of what looks like very cheap gin. The demon is going for quantity, not for quality. Not a good sign, that. Crowley shrugs again.  
“Not nearly enough” The demon answers, reaching for another bottle. The angel can only look as he drinks it dry and vanishes it with a snap.  
“You don’t have to look at me like that, angel” Crowley grumbles looking at him with a golden side look.  
“Like what?” Aziraphale asks, taking stock of the empty bottles littering the living room. He vanishes them with a grimace.  
“Like I’m...breakable. I’m not” Crowley mutters “I’m a demon. Already broken. And fixed. And broken again, and fixed again and so on. So don’t look at me with that worried face. I really don’t deserve it” He explains, left hand flopping around.  
“Crowley, what...”  
“I. Don’t. Deserve. It. How much clearer do you want it?” Crowley looks crossed. Crossed, drunk and confused.   
“What is it that you don’t deserve, my love?”  
Aziraphale hopes he doesn’t look as desperate as he feels, because Crowley is finally opening up and he doesn’t want him to stop talking.  
“You’re so...perfect, angel” Crowley whispers “I don’t dessserve you. You’ll understand, one day, and you will leave”  
“No, love, I’ll...”  
“You will leave, angel, and you’ll be fffine without me. Maybe even better”  
“Crowley, you’re not making any sense”  
“I am!” Crowley screams, eyes wet “I am! I don’t deserve you, I will ruin you! Why are you sssstill with me, Aziraphale?”  
Aziraphale chokes on air for a second, the anguish coming from Crowley is so strong he can feel its taste on his tongue, and is acidic with fear and desperation. A cold fury takes hold of him, then, and his eyes widen as he takes a deep breath.  
“Sober up, love” He says.  
“Ngk. Don’t wanna”  
“Crowley” Aziraphale growls “Sober the fuck up”  
And shit, if Aziraphale swears it means that things are getting serious. Crowley doesn’t want him to get pissed, doesn’t want to prove to him that everything he fears is real, that he really is a fuck up. He wasn’t good as an angel, too curious, peculiar and rebellious, and he sucks as a demon. He can’t do anything right, and is undeserving, so undeserving of being in Aziraphale’s presence. Of being loved by this perfect, sweet, strong angel. He knows it, and now Aziraphale knows it too. So yeah, maybe listening to him for once might help his cause. He sobers up. And regrets it immediately.  
-  
As soon as Crowley gets sober his demeanour changes: he goes from shocked to desperately tense in a couple of seconds. Aziraphale doesn’t even have the time to speak that the demon has already locked himself inside the bathroom. The angel is at his heels, and nearly gets a door on the nose for the disturb.  
“Crowley!” He calls, knocking on the door “Love, open the door!”  
Silence.


	19. Not worthy-Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He fails. Of course he fails: he’s an ancient being, as old as history itself, and his feelings are just as vast. He can’t hope to downplay them, they’ve been simmering for millennia and it looks like they’re trying to get our right now, and all at once. 

You know how Hemingway said "Write drunk, edit sober"?  
I didn't edit.

\---

Crowley is panicking inside a bathroom, and how cliché is it. It’s not fun. He’s standing, back pressed against the wall of blue tiles as far as possible from the door. He can’t confront Aziraphale now, can’t show him the depths of his despair, anxiety and fear. The angel deserves something better, someone better than the mess he actually is, someone that won’t crumble on himself, someone that won’t let his thoughts spiral down as his own are doing right now. Someone with more control. Aziraphale deserves someone else, but he lacks the courage to tell him so. Such a selfish coward.  
Then there’s a hazy memory surfacing, and he hears his own voice screaming at the angel, telling him that he would be wise to leave him, and has to press both hands against his mouth to stifle the first sobs.  
“Crowley, open the door!”  
Aziraphale is trying to get inside, and Crowley feels his knees buckle. He’s stuck. He can’t go on without Aziraphale, won’t be able to survive knowing that the angel is out there, unreachable, but doesn’t want to force him in a relationship that might turn out to be less then what he deserves. He slides down, back still pressed against the wall, ending up hiding between the sink and the small white cabinet where Aziraphale keeps his cologne and other stuff. He hugs his knees, trying to become as small as possible, something so little that all that pain won’t have another choice but get out of him, because there’s simply not enough space inside. He fails. Of course he fails: he’s an ancient being, as old as history itself, and his feelings are just as vast. He can’t hope to downplay them, they’ve been simmering for millennia and it looks like they’re trying to get out right now, and all at once. Crowley lets his mouth free to make any noise it wishes. It won’t change anything anyway.  
-  
Aziraphale hears a gasp, and then Crowley is sobbing on the other side of the door: he loses it, snaps his fingers and that blasted thing flies open, revealing the dark bathroom and the demon that is currently inside. He might have been pissed at Crowley, at his damned habit of running from his feelings and drown them in alcohol, but just one look at the demon makes him forget everything about it, replacing the anger with deep concern and love. The mix is nearly lethal, and could choke him should he let it.  
Crowley is huddled on the floor, his sunglasses nowhere to be seen, and his eyes are full on display: they’re so big and scared, realizes the angel, as they follow him while he walks around the sink and towards the demon.  
“Crowley” He murmurs crouching in front of him, careful to leave the demon some space and frowning as he hears his quick breathing “You’re working yourself into a panic, my love. You have to breathe”.  
No shit, Sherlock, thinks Crowley. And then also thinks that no, he actually doesn’t need to breathe, but his brain is in overdrive. There’s one small part of his mind that clings to rationality with all its might, but the biggest part has gone totally nuts, and is scared shitless. He can’t control it, he can’t control this panic, he doesn’t know how and he barely registers the angel’s voice.  
“Love” Aziraphale repeats, hands close to his own body and palms up, placating “You need to breathe, love. Please”.  
Crowley shakes his head. He doesn’t need to, he’s a demon, but it looks like his fucking lungs have a mind on their own. He feels a hand on one of his knees and jumps backwards, head colliding against the wall with a painful thud, and the hand vanishes immediately.  
“Good Lord, Crowley. I’m sorry”  
It sounds like the angel is crying, his voice seems wet and cracking, but he can’t really hear him over the sound of his rushing blood and his wheezing breaths. His lungs hurt so much, his back is on fire, and his vision is getting strange, a bit hazy and dark around the edges, and it’s hard to focus. And then Aziraphale’s hands are cupping his face and the angel’s voice reaches him through the hiccups that tear themselves from his mouth.  
“Love, you need to breathe or you will pass out” Aziraphale’s eyes are roaming around his face “Breathe, love. You’re alright, everything is ok, but you have to breathe”.  
He tries, oh how he tries, until the angel presses one finger on his lips to close them and force him to breathe through his nose and snatches one of the hands currently clawing at his denim clad tights. Aziraphale presses his demon’s hand against his chest, making a show of taking a deep breath.  
“Feel it, Crowley?” He asks, breathing again “Come on, sweetheart, breathe with me”.  
He tries and fails, stutters and coughs, but in the end it starts working: Aziraphale’s features get clearer, and he feels like panicking again when he sees the look on the angel’s face. His own face feels wet, and he notices with sheer self loathing that he’s still crying, tears falling from his eyes. His back aches from the shallow breaths he’s taken for so long, his chest burns, his head hurts like hell and he’s tired. So tired. His head lolls and starts falling forward, but Aziraphale catches him and lets him rest against his chest. They stay like that for a while, the demon cradled in the angel’s warmth, his mind blank, and Aziraphale starts humming, trying to calm him further.  
“Do you want to stay here?” The angel asks, clearing his throat and carding his fingers in Crowley’s hair “I can miracle up your blanket, the fluffy one you like”.  
Crowley feels like smiling but can’t really manage it. He just shakes his head and musters the strength to utter a few words.  
“Nope. M’ass is freezing”  
“Alright, love. Can you walk? Just to the couch, you can rest there”  
He nods, head brushing against Aziraphale’s shirt, and gets up on wobbly legs. The angel hovers until the couch is in front of him and lets him sit down heavily: Crowley is resting his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, breath still a bit wild. He expects Aziraphale to sit next to him, but the angel’s face enters his line of vision when he crouches in front of him, hands caressing his arms.  
“You feel better?”  
“Yesss” He hisses drying his eyes “Thanks, angel”  
“It’s no problem, Crowley” Aziraphale smiles and goes to sit behind him, letting the demon rest his back against his chest and crossing his arms around his shoulders. He’s possessive, he can’t hide it. He likes to touch Crowley, likes to keeps him close, likes to be able to look at him without having to be afraid.  
“Rest” He says kissing his neck “We will talk later”  
Crowley swallows but nods, even if dread fills his stomach.  
-  
“Are you awake?”  
He hears, and feels Aziraphale nuzzle his hair with his nose. The angel is still holding him and it feels good until he remembers what happened. He nods and coughs, forcing his voice to work.  
“’M sorry, angel” He croaks, and Aziraphale’s hold gets stronger.  
“Nonsense, love” He says, resting his chin on Crowley’s right shoulder “Nothing to be sorry for”  
Crowley’s eyes widen at that, and his back tenses.  
“Uh...you remember I freaked out on you, right?”  
“Of course, love” Aziraphale nods, hairs tickling Crowley’s jaw “You want to tell me what it was all about?”  
The demon stills, eyes fixing the floor. Does he wants to? Oh Hell, no.  
“Ngk. Dunno” He answers “Kinda have to, I suppose”  
Aziraphale hums, readjusting his grip.  
“I won’t force you” He says, and Crowley is grateful “But talking about it might help, you know it”  
“Mpf. Angel, sounds like forcing to me”  
Aziraphale huffs out a laugh against Crowley’s neck, and the demon shivers against his lips.  
“Not at all, love. Should you tell me to mind my own business I would, and I wouldn’t ask you any more questions. But I can see that this, whatever it is, is hurting you and I can’t just pretend that everything is fine”  
Well, Aziraphale might have a point. Might. And a very small point, mind you. Crowley sighs and lets his head fall backwards on Aziraphale’s shoulder.  
“Alright” He murmurs “Alright”.  
There is a long silence, then, but the angel knows better than breaking it: Crowley will speak when he will feel ready, and there’s no rush anyway. He’s warm against Aziraphale’s chest, fluttering heartbeat visible on his neck as the angel caresses his arms and his back with slow strokes. All Aziraphale wants is to see him happy again, to see that pointy smile he misses so much, but he will settle for the presence of the demon, concrete and tangible, back perfectly slotted against his chest and head on his shoulder, throat exposed and vulnerable. He forgets it, sometimes. He forgets that Crowley is vulnerable too. It’s just that he waltz through life wearing his sarcasm like an armour and his fashionable clothes like a second skin. And look at him now.  
“I...fuck, angel” Crowley starts, and Aziraphale is so deep in his thoughts that his voice startles him “I don’t know where to start”.  
Aziraphale keeps silent and kisses the small patch of skin behind Crowley’s ear.  
“It’s just that...hm. I’m...”  
His mouth hangs open and he has to remind himself to breathe through his nose, feeling the panic rise again. Aziraphale senses it coming and places his hand on his sternum, guiding his breathing and keeping him calm.  
“Angel, I fell. She deemed me...wrong. And sometimes I think about it and get so fucking scared”  
Aziraphale wants to interrupt him and kiss these words away from his lips, but chooses to keep silent, slipping his fingers under the demon’s shirt and lightly scratching his skin. Should he interrupt him now, Crowley would get silent and unresponsive again.  
“What scares you” He asks instead, because he needs to understand. Crowley bites his lip.  
“You” He whispers “You scare me so much”.  
Aziraphale feels his stomach clench and snakes his arms around the demon, fingers drawing patterns on his biceps. He has to keep calm.  
“Why, love? What did I do?”  
Crowley crumples, head touching his own knees.  
“You...you love me, Aziraphale. And I can’t understand why. If even Her couldn’t do it…”  
He doesn’t finish the sentence, his words hanging in the air leaving behind them a bad taste in his mouth.  
“Oh, my love” The angel slides his hands under Crowley’s chest and hoist him up, helping him to turn around until he’s half sitting on his lap, half sprawled on the couch “What’s wrong in loving you? It’s the most natural thing in the world to me. The easiest thing in the world”.  
“But...” Crowley is looking at him like he’s sprouted a second head “But f She couldn’t love me, how can you?” He asks, daring to meet Aziraphale’s eyes “How can anyone?”  
Aziraphale holds him, thumbs drying his cheeks. Pfffft. Fucking treacherous tears.  
“I can’t speak for everyone, love, but for me loving you is what makes eternity worth living. As for Her, I honestly think She might have made a mistake with you”.  
“You what?” Crowley’s eyes are huge, and he looks so incredulous that Aziraphale feels like laughing. He has a fleeting vision of aeons in the past, of a demon with long red hair and an amused smile that asked him the same, exact question.  
“I mean exactly what I said, love. Now. What makes you so afraid?”  
Crowley looks at him and his eyes get scared fearful again: the tears in them make their colour shine even more but, as beautiful as they may be, Aziraphale hates seeing his demon so distraught.  
“I’m afraid you will see reason, angel” He chokes out “I’m afraid you’ll see what She saw and leave me. And I couldn’t take a second fall”.  
“Look at me, Crowley” Aziraphale invites him with a finger under his chin and, when Crowley complies, he nearly wishes he hadn’t. Crowley looks shattered. He looks even worse than when he found him in that pub, right after the shop had gone down in flames. He takes him in, and his words die in his throat.  
“Don’t you think I suffer from the same fear?” He whispers “Don’t you think that the mere idea of an eternity without you scares me to death, Crowley?”  
“I...I’m sorry, angel” Crowley stretches out his hand, but stops a breath before actually touching Aziraphale’s face “I could never leave you. Never leave you. I tried to be better. For you. But I’m just...I’m me. I can’t help it”.  
“Crowley, what you are is more than enough. It’s perfect. I could never leave you, too” He’s holding the demon, now, letting his head rest in the crook of his neck “I will never leave you, love”.  
Crowley is outright sobbing now, huge awful cry tearing themselves from his throat and hurting his throbbing head.  
“I don’t want to taint you. I don’t want you to fall because of me”  
That’s it, this is one of Crowley’s biggest fears, Aziraphale knows that perfectly. It’s what inhabits his nightmares and keeps him awake at night. It’s what stops him when they fall in bed together, and what fuels his guilt. A demon whose worst fear is being someone else’s downfall. Yep, She totally made a mistake with him.  
“Love, I won’t fall. I would have fallen already, don’t you think?”  
Crowley shakes his head, hands on his mouth again.  
“You can’t know that” He hiccups “You can’t know that”.  
Well, so be it.  
“I wouldn’t care” Aziraphale states, and Crowley shakes his head again, shutting his eyes. Aziraphale had to grip his hands to stop him from hurting himself.  
“Don’t say that”  
“Crowley, I wouldn’t care. If it means sharing forever with you I will fall as many times as needed”.  
Crowley’s sobs grow stronger, his whole body shaking, and his posture changes: he slumps against Aziraphale, muscles slowly relaxing.  
“I love you” The angel says, and he wants those three words to penetrate the demon skin, to get inside his veins and travel through his whole body. Wants to see him alight with joy and happiness.  
“I love you so much, Crowley”.  
The demon turns around and clings to him with all of his considerable strength, drowning his cries in Aziraphale now damp, light brown shirt.  
“I love you” Aziraphale repeats “I love you. Will always love you. Will never leave you”.  
Now, as you know, crying your heart out is exhausting, and Crowley is starting to feel it: he clings to his angel with black painted nails and tries to calm down, but his eyes burn so fucking much that keeping them open is an effort he can’t really afford.  
“Love you too, angel” He rasps “Love you so much”  
“I know, sweetheart”  
“Quoting Star Wars, are we?”  
Aziraphale looks at him like he’s gone mad. Damn, he’s got so many movies to make him see. “Figures. ’m sorry” He mutters anyway and Aziraphale mouths the words Star and Wars for a few times.  
“Don’t be. Nothing to be sorry for”  
Well, looks like he forgot about the movie anyway.  
“’m sorry anyway. Sorry”  
“Love. Don’t be. But I forgive you if it’s what you need”  
Crowley lets his breaths grow deeper, melting in Aziraphale’s hug.  
“I’m so tired, angel”  
And he looks tired, too: eyes red and puffy, the beginning of dark circles under golden irises. He might not be speaking only about actual tiredness, Crowley feels tired of a lot of things. Of being scared, of feeling unworthy, of...fuck. He can’t think about it now, or he’ll have another nice panic attack. And he can so do without another of those. Aziraphale looks at him for a few moments, and Crowley knows, he just knows, that he understands.  
“Sleep, love. I won’t move”  
“Won’t you get bored?”  
“Hm. No. Too comfortable. And there’s a nice snake here to keep me warm”  
Crowley smiles despite everything.  
“If you say so”  
“I do. Now sleep, alright?”  
Crowley settles in Aziraphale’s embrace, looking at him.  
“Don’t leave. Please”  
“I won’t. I swear, love”  
“’m sorry”  
“Shut up, sweetheart. Nothing to be sorry for. I love you”  
Crowley regards him for a few moments before closing his eyes, and Aziraphale feels honoured by the trust the demon puts in him. He’s soft in his arms, finally relaxed, and he knows he’s the only one lucky enough to see him like this.  
“Oh good Lord” He mutters after a while “The pastries!”


	20. The Woods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Crowley” The angel calls, and the demon keeps on watching the trees. They’re beautiful, he decides. The earthly smell reaches his nostrils and he inhales, eyes closed. He doesn’t turn around to look at Aziraphale.  
“Crowley, please”

So I'll step to the light  
I see all their masks soon appear  
I long for the woods  
From this place I'll disappear  
Disappear  
Disappear, oh Lord  
Disappear  
The Woods - The White Buffalo

It’s been a while since the Garden of Eden stopped to have an actual usefulness but, to him, Earth still feels pretty young. People still believe in magic, and aren’t too shocked to share their streets and villages with occult and ethereal beings.  
Crowley keeps to himself, usually: people may be ready to accept that there are other presences among them, mysterious, sometimes benign, other times evil, but there’s an aura around him that just keeps people away, and his eyes surely don’t help. Constantly clad in black, the demon is a constant background presence, not good nor evil: should you be familiar with Dungeons&Dragons, you would define him a chaotic neutral, someone unpredictable for Heaven and Hell both. He likes it this way, even if it has procured him more than a problem with his head office: Hell wants him to follow their orders, he bypasses them obtaining, sometimes, a much better result. Other times he outright disobeys, and has paid for it more then once but, in the end, his record is still more positive than not, and his success with the apple is still quite fresh, so they let him wander Earth more or less undisturbed.  
He’s in a place called Medhelan, a city that will soon turn in one of the first metropolis of the world but, at the moment, it’s still a small village unharmed by the Roman Empire. It’s cold, and humid: winter starts early, there, and it’s full of fog and rain, painting the woods and the meadows around the small houses a full, electric green before covering it in snow. It’s peaceful, silent and beautiful, and it’s what Crowley needs to forget. He melts easily between those people with his long, red hair arranged in beads adorned braids, his yellow eyes hidden by the shadow of the woods and the long winter nights. He likes it there, he likes these free, fierce warriors and proud women, just as good with a sword as the men are. He might decide to stay in Medhelan for a while, just as far from the scorching sun and the endless sands of Asia where he’s heard the angel say such absurd, hurtful things without even thinking about it.  
He didn’t realize how cruel those things were, Crowley knows that, and that’s why he’s not angry at Aziraphale. Not really, at least. He’s an angel, can’t really know what went down back then. The Archangels kept it a secret from everyone but Her, and the fact that She knew and did nothing is something he won’t forgive easily.  
But he’s a demon now, right? He doesn’t have to forgive and forget anymore, he can keep his resentment close and polish it until it shines like some precious stone, so bright to blind and distract everyone that might be tempted to glimpse at the hurt hidden under its hard surface. He’ll keep his rage because he has a right to do so, and because no one can force him to forgive now.  
A couple of running kids startle him, forcing him to let go of his musings, and he’s grateful for that: they disappear down the muddy path in the blue light of the evening, their feet splashing water all around and leaving deep footprints behind. He follows them without even thinking about what he’s doing, because he like kids, little agent of chaos, and because they’re going into the woods, and those trees become dangerous at night, full of hungry animals, evil humans and feral legends. Crowley just stands at the edge of the dark trees and sits down, water quickly dampening his clothes and chilling him to the bones, but he won’t move from there. He’ll just keep on following the auras of those two kids to make sure they’re safe, eyes on the oh so luscious evergreen and the browns and greys of the trees barks. He’s still sitting there, transfixed, when the angel finds him.  
Aziraphale looks like a drowned cat, Crowley thinks, his curls flattened by the rain and his lips downturned, but he must look pretty much the same. He doesn’t make a move to acknowledge the angel, though. He’s not angry, he’s just...sad. Deeply sad. And can’t really help it. The weather seems to agree with him, because the light rain gets heavier, every drop hitting them with the whole weight of their sky long trip to Earth. They could decide to make them fall to the ground without being touched, but Crowley wants to feel them, wants them to pin him to the ground, as far from Heaven as possible, like a rain of blunt nails made of water.  
“Crowley” The angel calls, and the demon keeps on watching the trees. They’re beautiful, he decides. The earthly smell reaches his nostrils and he inhales, eyes closed. He doesn’t turn around to look at Aziraphale.  
“Crowley, please”  
-  
Nothing. The demon looks like a statue in the foggy twilight, eyes invisible behind tresses of drenched red hair, ankles crossed, knees encased in his arms and mouth hidden in the crook of his left elbow. He’s facing away from him, and it doesn’t look like he’s going to turn around anytime soon. He must be chilled, but he won’t leave this place, and Aziraphale doesn’t think that he’d take too kindly should he try and get him dry with a small miracle. Crowley’s eyes are lost in the trees, their trunks slowly disappearing in the incoming darkness: it’s an eerie kind of beauty and Crowley, sat there with his unruly mane of red hair, looks like some kind of woodland creature, born from earth and water, ready to disappear should the angel dare to blink. He’s beautiful, Aziraphale thinks. Beautiful and terribly alone.  
“Dear” he pleads “Won’t you at least look at me?”  
Crowley shrugs and sighs, and it’s a centuries long sigh.  
“What do you need?” He deadpans, and it hurts more than Aziraphale is ready to admit.  
“Nothing, Crowley. I just...” He just wants what, exactly? Beg for forgiveness? Ask the demon for comprehension? Tell him that he didn’t mean it? It would be a lie, because he did mean it, and didn’t even realize it would hurt Crowley so much one out in the air. He’s been so careless, so self absorbed. Oh, he’s been such an idiot.  
Well, to literal Hell with it: he ruffles his wings and extends one of them over Crowley’s head, sheltering him from the rain.  
“I didn’t know, dear” He whispers then, and his confession gets nearly drowned by the still pouring water. Crowley looks up, suddenly, and two kids come out of the woods laughing, carrying handfuls of edible herbs: the demon looks at them and his shoulders sags, but he makes no effort to change his position. Aziraphale is ready to repeat himself, sure that what he said got lost in the weather’s noise, when Crowley looks at him.  
“I know” He states in the same flat tone, then his eyes move to check on the kids and make sure they are getting home safely. He was worried for them, Aziraphale understands it now, and feels even more guilty for his assumption. So he sighs and plops down in the mud next to the demon, white wings covering them both.  
“I’m sorry, Crowley”  
And it’s the first time it happens in the story of our small planet: an angel begging a demon for forgiveness as if it’s something normal, something that can happen without the world imploding. It’s, in its own way, quite a big miracle.  
“As you said” Crowley answers refusing to look at him again “You didn’t know”  
Aziraphale looks at him, incredulous. Scream at me, he would like to say, be angry, throw a tantrum, tell me to get out of your face. Everything but this.  
“It’s no excuse” He stammers “I shouldn’t speak of things I don’t know. I was out of line”  
Crowley shifts a little, and Aziraphale takes a relieved breath. Just that tiny movement made him look alive again, even if his profile still looks carved in stone.  
“Angel” He mutters “What do you want me to say?”  
The small glimmer of hope that Aziraphale felt gets smashed by Crowley’s resigned tone.  
“I don’t want you to...Good Lord, Crowley. You don’t have to do a single thing. I just want you to know that I was wrong, and I’m sorry”  
“Noted” the demon answers “And you couldn’t have known anyway”  
“I should have”  
“How Aziraphale, hm?” Crowley explodes, fully turning to look at him “Care to enlighten me, angel?”  
And oh, the angel feels so relieved at his outburst he could cry. That deadly stillness just looked so wrong on the demon’s features.  
“I should have asked” He reasons “I should have tried to understand. I should have been curious, just a bit”  
“You would have fallen!” Crowley roars and jumps up, and the rain is hitting him again “You know now how they threw us out. No trial, no explanation. Just a dive from the sky like some fucking rock!”  
Aziraphale keeps seated, merely looking up at him. His fangs are showing he notices, then his eyes get distracted by a crow flying high above their heads. When he moves his gaze back on the demon Crowley has deflated and is taking short, heaving breaths, hands fisted in his clothes.  
“It’s better this way, angel” He concludes, looking to the side and to the woods again “Trust me”.  
Aziraphale gets on his feet and goes to stand behind him, feeling the weight of his damp clothes and clasping his hands behind his back.  
“I do, Crowley” He states “That’s why I need to apologise for what I said. For telling you that there had to be a reason for your fall. A reason for you to be cast out. A trial for that. I fundamentally told you that you deserved to fall. I assumed, and I was wrong, and I’m so deeply sorry”  
Crowley just bites his bottom lip. He doesn’t really know how he should feel. He’s not angry at Aziraphale, he never was: he’s just pissed at this whole situation, at Heaven, at the archangels for doing what they did, at Her for letting it happen. It’s liberating in a way, to be allowed to enjoy his own rage.  
“Whatever, angel” He mutters, shrugging “It’s not you I’m pissed at, anyway”.  
“Oh” Aziraphale looks at him, perplexed “And who are you...pissed at, then?”  
Crowley laughs, he can’t help it. Hearing the angel talk like that is just too strange.  
“Believe me, you wouldn’t like the answer”  
Aziraphale hums and turns to face the woods, hands still behind his back, swinging back and forth on his feet.  
“Would you...” He starts, but then seems to think about it. Crowley eyes him from the side “Would you allow me to invite you to a dry, warm spot for dinner, then?”  
Crowley turns around at this, golden eyes in full view. There’s something new inside them, and Aziraphale is saddened to see that it’s distrust. It lasts just a moment but it was there, and the angel has to accept it. He deserves it. The demon’s clothes are drenched, and he must be freezing, but he still seems rooted to the spot, thinking about the angel’s proposal.  
“I...hm” His shoulders relax slightly “Very well, angel. Lead the way”  
Aziraphale smiles and nods, making a list in his head.  
Get Crowley warm. Get him some actual food. Regain his trust. Learn what he doesn’t know about him.  
Oh, this is going to be interesting.


	21. You will set the world on fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was trying to save the world, and they had punished him for that. He had dared to think for himself, and they had cast him out. He felt like laughing, but found himself sobbing, crouched on the damp ground, dirty water ruining his trousers.  
“Come on, angel” He heard “Let’s go to my place”  
“Not an angel” He growled, arms crossed around his middle “Not anymore”

Oh you will set the world babe  
You will set the world on fire  
I can work the scene and  
I can see the magazines  
I can hear the nation  
I can hear the nation cry  
You will set the world babe  
You will set the world on fire  
You will set it on fire

David Bowie - (You will) Set the world on fire

He didn’t pay much mind to it in the beginning, when he had just started to feel weird. His back ached, he felt weak and he really couldn’t focus on his thoughts, words eluding him. He was tired.  
No, scratch that, he was exhausted.  
Then he started losing his feathers, and his sight started to change. It wasn’t getting worse, mind you, just...different. His hair felt different too, and now there were grey stripes in his white curls. Crowley noticed. Of course he did.  
-  
“Angel, what happened to your hair?”  
“Hm? Oh, I don’t really know, dear, but I don’t mind them that much. They look nice, don’t they?”  
Crowley looked at him, shoulder as high as his ear, worried golden eyes behind dark lenses, and shook his head.  
“Are you alright?”  
“Oh, yes”  
He lied. And the demon knew. But he looked so worried, and Aziraphale didn’t really like seeing those creases on his face. He didn’t want to trouble him if he could help it so he just smiled, dark circles beginning to form under his blue eyes, and nodded.  
“Of course I’m fine, dear. Why shouldn’t I be?”  
-  
Why, indeed? Nothing had really happened since Crowley and himself had meet the last time, in the Sixties, when he had given the demon that thermos full of holy water. Don’t go unscrewing the cap, he had instructed, and everything was fine, everything was normal so, why? Why did he feel so exhausted, why did his eyes looked more and more like steel and less like the sky blue he was used to? Why were his hair turning grey, what was that ever growing pit of loneliness in the middle of his chest? And why were his wings turning dark, the feathers taking on a midnight blue tint so much more similar to Crowley’s than to his fellow angels?  
Oh, he had ideas, of course he had: you don’t spend your whole life browsing books without learning something. He thought about stress induced changes, at first, then about some unknown sickness. Crowley tried to help him understand.  
Until Crowley understood it himself.  
“Aziraphale...angel” He stammered, shaking from head to toes “I...I think. I’m afraid that...”  
He chocked on his words. How do you tell something like that to someone you love?  
Oh.   
You. Love.  
He was in love with the angel. Oh, Satan. This was his fault. It was all on him. Aziraphale had given him holy water to help him, to stop him from getting hurt, to help a god forsaken demon. And such a sin couldn’t go unpunished. How could he not have thought about it? How could he have been so selfish? The angel would never forgive him now, and with good reasons.  
“You’re afraid that...what?” Aziraphale asked, and Crowley noticed his eyes: a steely grey gaze was boring a hole in his head, so different from the kind, blue eyes he was so in love with, and there were so many emotions swimming in there. Fear. Hope. And rage. It wasn’t the first time that Crowley witnessed such anger in the angel’s eyes, but it usually took a lot more to make him mad. Now that wrath was simmering in his eyes already, and fuck if it wasn’t a telltale sign of what was happening.  
“I’m...angel. I’m so sorry. Aziraphale. Sorry”  
“Sorry?” Aziraphale repeated “Sorry, Crowley? What for?”  
“You’re...you’re falling, angel”.  
-  
Aziraphale froze, eyes wide and a shaking smile on his lips. Then he started shaking his head, frantic.  
“That’s not possible, dear. How can I fall if I’m on Earth?”  
“You don’t...angel.” Crowley fell on his knees on the soft carpet, hands clutching at Aziraphale’s jacket, the fire burning in the fireplace gifting a red halo to his hair “Angel, you don’t need to be in Heaven to fall”.  
And then, it happened.  
-  
Aziraphale clutched at his chest, eyes screwed shut, and felt his Grace drain completely. Where She was, nestled warmly inside his ribcage, there was just a fire now, burning cold and leaving him gasping and alone. So, so terribly alone and cut out from Her love.   
“Angel!”  
He heard Crowley scream, but he was too far gone. He closed his new dark wings around himself and vanished, leaving Crowley alone in the shop, hands outstretched towards nothing more than thin air.  
-  
It hurt. Good Lord, it hurt so much and he couldn’t understand why. What had he done to deserve this, why had She deemed him unworthy and made him Fall? He had done nothing but follow Heaven’s orders, obeying their every little whim even when he didn’t agree…  
Oh...that.  
He didn’t agree, and they knew that. They had to know that. He had started to doubt the Great Plan, actively fighting it with Crowley, trying to thwart the incoming Apocalypse. He screamed in pain, doubling over, as he felt his wings burn and his spine crack. That’s when the rage came, as he was scrambling against the brick wall to stay on his feet: it exploded in his veins, hellfire surging from his hands and lighting up the small, dark alley where he was hiding. He looked at his fingers, fascination fighting against the pain, and clenched his fists. The flames flared higher before vanishing altogether, leaving him alone and in the dark again.  
It was cold. It was so, so cold.  
He was trying to save the world, and they had punished him for that. He had dared to think for himself, and they had cast him out. He felt like laughing, but found himself sobbing, crouched on the damp ground, dirty water ruining his trousers.  
“Come on, angel” He heard “Let’s go to my place”  
“Not an angel” He growled, arms crossed around his middle “Not anymore”  
Crowley just sighed, and snapped his fingers.  
-  
Crowley’s place was...empty. He was so used to the crowded, comfortable mess of the shop that the sleek, stylish flat felt just that. Empty. And cold. Oh, it was still so cold. He was shaking with it, hands trying desperately to get warm under his armpits.   
“Don’t touch me” He rasped, shaking away Crowley’s fingers from his shoulders “Please” He added, when the red haired demon looked down at him, crestfallen. Crowley nodded and took a couple of steps walking backwards, away from him, hands in his pockets to stop himself from reaching out again. With his head bowed and his eyes covered by his dark lenses, Aziraphale was left unable to understand what was going on in his mind.  
“What now?” He whispered, looking at his hands and remembering the fire glowing on his fingers, shuddering when a particularly sharp spike of pain went through his skull “What...what am I, Crowley?”  
Crowley’s head shoot up, and he took him in: Aziraphale’s hair were dark grey, with dark stripes starting from his temples and going all the way on his head, matched by his now pearly grey eyes. His pupils weren’t slitted. Thanks Satan.  
What was he?  
Beautiful and intimidating, that’s what he was, Crowley thought with his mouth slightly open. Just like before, but in a more dark, twisted way. Beautiful, and broken, and in pain.  
“Can I...touch you?”  
He asked, palms up and back still against the concrete wall, and Aziraphale seemed to think about it, still huddled on the floor. He nodded, then, and Crowley took those two steps again and tentatively linked his arms around his back, feeling every small tremor that cursed through him. It was just a whisper of a touch, but it was enough for Aziraphale to crumble against him, breath frozen in his lungs.  
This was bad. This was so fucking bad.  
“What am I, Crowley?” He asked again, and Crowley felt compelled to answer.  
“A demon” He whispered, chin resting on Aziraphale’s dark grey curls “And a powerful one, at that”.  
The keening sound that the ex angel emitted was enough to make him feel like crying on his behalf, stomach clenching with anguish.  
“I didn’t want to. I swear, I didn’t want to”  
Aziraphale muttered, and Crowley kept silent. He didn’t know who he was talking to. He could be talking to Her, for all he knew. And it was totally useless. She didn’t listen to their kind. Not anymore. Not ever. He clutched Aziraphale even closer, hands roaming around his shaking back.  
“Does it still hurt?”  
He asked, and Aziraphale nodded, hands clenching and unclenching on Crowley’s black shirt, and soon felt Crowley’s long, pointed nails on his curls. Trying to tame them, to give them a bit of a sense.  
“So soft”  
Crowley muttered and Aziraphale blushed, face still hidden against the demon’s chest. Crowley kept on with his soft ministrations, massaging the area around his shoulder blades. That’s were it hurt the most, and Crowley seemed to know what to do from direct experience.  
Of course he did. He had already fallen, he knew how it felt.   
Aziraphale’s breath hitched as a nasty twinge of pain ran through his back making him double over, and Crowley’s fingers clenched in the spasming muscles, forcing the pain away and clutching him closer to his chest.  
“It will pass” He soothed, lips against his scalp “I’m sorry an...Aziraphale. So sorry this is happening to you”  
Aziraphale had to make an effort to open his eyes and, when he did, his vision swam until he realized that his night vision had grown better, his eyes now letting him see every small particular of Crowley’s home. He cleared his throat from bile and tears before forcing his mouth to open.  
“Not your fault”  
He didn’t say Dear anymore, Crowley noticed with a pang in his heart.  
“Are you sure?” He asked, keeping the hurting body close, rocking him back and forth slowly. Aziraphale nodded, hair tickling Crowley’s nose then, all of a sudden, he started laughing. It was such a wrong sound, so deranged and broken.  
“I doubted them” He said, a twisted smile on his lips “I dared to think, and they threw me out”  
Crowley dragged his knees closer to his body, letting the ex angel settle between his tights.  
“I know, angel. I know how it works. How they work”  
Aziraphale was silent for a while, mulling over something, and Crowley started growing uneasy.  
“Are we still stopping them, Aziraphale?” He asked, uncertain, fingers caressing Aziraphale’s grey curls “Are we still stopping the Apocalypse?”  
Aziraphale looked up, and his eyes were so hard. So angry.  
“We are” He rasped “We so are, dear. Even more than before”  
Crowley elated at the endearment, happy to hear it again, but didn’t really have the words to calm all that rage and, should he have had them, he would have kept silent. He still felt it, even after 600 years. It was a rage that couldn’t be settled, and everything he could do to try and calm Aziraphale down would only backfire, infuriating him. So he let his jaw work and settled for a simple: “Alright, Aziraphale”.  
It was the wrong thing to say, anyway. Aziraphale’s nostrils flared as the ex angel sat on his knees.  
“Don’t call me that” He ordered. He looked calmer, Crowley noticed. More collected. Colder. Scarier. His mouth closed with an audible clack.  
“How should I call you, then?”  
Aziraphale not Aziraphale sat up, legs crossed and back against a big vase. The plant inside tried to sidestep him. With no considerable results, as you can imagine. Crowley’s plants used to love Aziraphale, that change was heartbreaking.  
“Belial” He answered, looking up at the green leaves “You can call me Belial, dear”.

\--

Belial as in the demon master of the Earth, He Who Won't Kneel, Northern crown prince of satanism?  
Absolutely.


	22. House on a hill - Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But, of course, Heaven has other plans: “Get down there and stop him from committing his first murder. We know he’s going to do it, and should you be successful we might be able to save him. Should you fail” Gabriel had told him with a smile full of teeth “It wouldn’t be that bad. We know who the victim is going to be, and they are...expendable”.  
Expendable. Gabriel had defined an innocent soul going to be murdered expendable. There were days when Aziraphale didn’t feel like falling, he felt like fucking jump.

Aaaaand I did it again! I slipped, wrote something really long and angsty as fuck and split it in two.  
TAKE CARE, THIS STORY IS ABOUT NON-CON AND RAPE. 

Somewhere in the end we're all insane  
To think that light ahead will save us from this grave  
That's in the end of all this pain  
In the night ahead, there's a light upon this house on a hill  
The pretty reckless - House on a hill

Aziraphale huffs, walking up and down the small road in front of the house of his assignment. The place itself is not particularly noticeable: just a small house trapped between other small houses in a northern Italy small valley, covered by snow and filled with violence. That violence is what makes the village so special: the mand that lives in there is one of the worst human being on Earth, a man that beats his wife and his son, and rapes his daughter. He still hasn’t killed anyone but it’s going to happen, so Heaven has had this great idea: “Hey, what if we redeem that man, make him so much better that he’ll gain a full ride upstairs? Imagine Lucifer’s face then! Aziraphale, why don’t you do it? It’s going to be so much fun!”  
Oh, sure. So much fun. The stench of evil that oozed from those walls was overwhelming and made him feel like puking. And he had been sent there for some sort of sick bet, for crying out loud. He should simply walk in there, grab those poor kids and that poor woman, take them somewhere safe and put the fear of God into that man with his flaming sword but no: Heaven wanted to steal that wretched, ruined soul from Hell just for the kick of it, and who better that Aziraphale, the angel that every archangel felt like using because they could?  
“You know humans so well, Aziraphale. I’m sure you won’t have any problems”  
Sure, he knew them better than anyone up there, and it meant that he could recognize someone truly evil. And that man in there was truly evil, and totally disinterested in salvation. He went to mass every Sunday with his family, got home and beat his wife and did unspeakable things to his children: the girl was older and always tried to shield her brother sacrificing herself, but no one could stop the man from getting to the boy once he was done with her.  
Aziraphale has heard voices: he’s been told that he likes to go out, at night, looking for young boys to enjoy himself with. He’s got nothing against lovers of the same sex, and She neither. It’s the violence he uses on them, the broken bones and black eyes and split lips that make him want to smite him on the spot. Everything he touches he hurts, and Aziraphale wants him to stop: he doesn’t want him to be saved, he wants him to rot in Hell forever.  
But, of course, Heaven has other plans: “Get down there and stop him from committing his first murder. We know he’s going to do it, and should you be successful we might be able to save him. Should you fail” Gabriel had told him with a smile full of teeth “It wouldn’t be that bad. We know who the victim is going to be, and they are...expendable”.  
Expendable. Gabriel had defined an innocent soul going to be murdered expendable. There were days when Aziraphale didn’t feel like falling, he felt like fucking jump. Moreover, having to stop him from killing someone means that Aziraphale has to wait for it to happen, and has his hands tied about everything else. He has to stay there and watch, following him everywhere, observing as he abuses the humanity he has around.  
He wants him dead, even if it’s not angelic at all. Screw that, it actually is: angels are warriors, not feathery pets made of unicorns (Oi Shem! He still remembers Crowley’s voice) and rainbows (How nice, the demon had said, and how strange it was that Aziraphale could remember exactly his voice, his face and his words after more than 100 since the last time he saw him?), so feeling vengeful was totally expected from him. Being forced to to watch was absolute torture, and the rage he felt growing would surely turn to wrath once he would be in front of that abomination. As for now, he’s got no choice but to obey Heaven’s orders, following him everywhere. He’s seen him with one of the boys he uses to make his nights funnier and, Lord, how he wishes he hadn’t. The kid was a bloody mess once it was over, and Aziraphale had had precise orders not to intervene, but no one could have stopped him from gathering the half dead boy in his arms, miracle away his wounds and transport him to the closest safe place he could think of, meaning a lovely bookshop in Soho, London. He visits the boy daily, makes sure he’s safe and fed and then goes back to the Alps hoping that his target still hasn’t killed anyone.  
When he gets back from his Soho visit he feels refreshed: his shop is his sanctuary, after all, and Tonio, the kid he saved, is a very nice and smart boy. He’s learning to read and write in Italian, his own language, and Aziraphale will start teaching him some rudiment of English very soon to make him more independent and ready to find some job. It shouldn’t be hard: he’s a strong boy and London, in the early 1900, is in dire need of workers.

Anyway, he’s just back from London, and the man is leaving his home in that exact moment: just a second later and he’d have lost him. Just his lucky day, hm?  
The man walks towards the small town and goes straight for the inn, and Aziraphale knows what’s going to happen already: he’ll find some poor kid and abuse him mercilessly. All he has to do, all he’s allowed to do, is stop him from killing. He’s got no idea why Heaven won’t intervene to stop him from doing everything he does. Aziraphale settles down at a table, choosing to have some red wine and a plate of very warm polenta, and keeps his senses latched on the abomination sitting close to him. The man has got someone sitting on his lap, but this guy looks older than his usual target. He’s got red hair and thin limbs, and he’s clad in black clothes: he can’t see his face, but his figure reminds him so much of Crowley that Aziraphale feels a pang of longing in his chest. He hasn’t seen the demon since the whole holy water fiasco, and it’s been nearly a century. It might sound strange for an angel, missing a demon, but there he is. The man grasps the by his wrist and drags him outside, in the cold, and that poor kid is too underdressed for all that snow. Aziraphale is tempted to just snatch him away and spare him everything. He can’t. He just follows them outside. The man is kissing the red haired guy with too much force, and Aziraphale can see him resist his need to get away from him. Poor kid, being forced to do such things.  
The man and the red haired guy vanish inside a cabin on the other side of the road, and all the angel can do is miracle himself as inconspicuous as possible and follow them inside.

It’s dark, so dark that he can’t see a thing, but he can hear the man’s voice, ordering the other to take off his clothes. There are a few seconds of silence, and then the noises begin: it’s nothing he’s never heard before, at first, just thumps and moans, but it turns strange after a while. The red haired guy is silent, but the man. Oh, the man is screaming at him such obscenities, and threatening to kill him if he doesn’t give it back (give back what exactly?), and then everything goes to literal Hell.  
There is a loud crash, and a body falls from the window of the second floor, landing on the snowy street with a sickening thud.  
He did it. Oh Lord, he did it, and Aziraphale wasn’t there to stop him.  
He runs outside, where a small crowd is already gathered around the body. The man is running down the stairs, steps made heavy by alcohol, and Aziraphale won’t let him get close to his victim again: he trips him, and the man falls in the snow face first. The angel moves towards the prone body, still in the bloody snow, when the red haired guy starts moving. He coughs, and the angel can’t help his happiness because he’s alive. That poor boy is still alive.  
And then the unthinkable happens.  
The redhead’s hands start glowing red, and the skin of that evil man start sizzling. He screams as he’s set on fire by what looks like a strange case of self combustion, and Aziraphale just sits there, frozen, and remembers to miracle the people’s attention away just later, when his target is nothing more than a charred corpse and his victim is trying to move in a fetal position in the snow.  
He doesn’t know what happened, he can’t understand, but he turns towards that mop of soaked red hair because he knows who he is, and he’s scared shitless.  
It takes him a few tries to gather him in his arms, because the man is still fighting even in his half conscious state. When he does, he finds himself staring into Crowley's marred features.


	23. House on a hill - Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s ok, angel” He answers, and Aziraphale’s patience reaches its limit. It’s always the same, with Crowley. He’s always fine. He never is.  
“No, it’s not” He mutters, and it’s the calm before the storm. Crowley looks at him with one arched eyebrow.  
“It really is, Aziraphale. There’s nothing you could...”  
“Stop it!”

WARNING, THIS STORY IS ABOUT RAPE. BE SAFE.

“Tonio, I’m home!”  
Aziraphale screams as he rushes inside, an armful of unconscious demon kept close to his chest. He’s bleeding so much, every step he takes is underlined by the pitter patter of red drops falling to the floor. He’s got so many broken bones, and his eyes...good Lord, one of his eyes is black and swollen, the other has got no more white inside, the sclera turned red by broken vessels and blood. Tonio comes in running, and screeches to a halt next to the couch. He shivers looking at the broken form cradled in Aziraphale’s arms, and the angel knows that he must be thinking about what happened to him, but there’s no time for that. Crowley has lost too much blood already, and looks on the brink of discorporation. Aziraphale won’t let him die like that, not if he can stop it. It’s too brutal, too violent and terrifying. He won’t let him go like this. He doesn’t even care about the assignment anymore, his target is dead, his soul is in Hell and he couldn’t care less about it. Crowley is what matters, Crowley and his blood, his bones, his cunning mind and that pointy smile of his.  
“Get me some water, Tonio” He orders, miracling some soft, white towels on the couch and resting Crowley’s broken body there with the utmost care. The demon is still unresponsive and that, together with the clamminess of his skin, is scaring the angel so much.  
“Crowley, dear. Can you hear me?” He tries, feeling the demon’s cold forehead “Crowley?”  
Tonio is back with the water and Aziraphale forces himself to smile at the boy.  
“Thank you” He mutters, pushing aside books and stacks of paper, miracling some medical supplies on the table. Tonio doesn’t bat a lash anymore when his host uses his magic in front of him, or whatever it might be. He just leaves the water next to the angel and stands there, trying to understand how to help. The man Aziraphale has brought home is looking even worst than him when that strange, blonde man had found him in that alley: his eyes are swollen, one of them is black, his lips split and his long, red hair are matted with blood. There is a nasty gash at his hairline, and his left arm and left leg are broken, and bent at an odd angle.  
“His skull is fractured” Aziraphale says, and it startles him “His ribs and those limbs too. Would you please go to the carpenter down the road and buy some splints to immobilize them? The leg and the arm, at least. We’ll deal with his head and ribs in another way”.  
Tonio nods and accepts the money, running towards the door. When he gets there he spares a look at his host: he looks so worried, he thinks, desperate as he checks the new guest’s temperature and moves his red hair from his forehead.  
-  
“Crowley” Aziraphale repeats after Tonio leaves “Crowley, please. Crowley, open your eyes”.  
Might as well have been a miracle, because Crowley’s eyes flutter open a bit. At least one of them does, since the other stays shut and swollen. The golden iris Aziraphale can see is swimming in blood, but Aziraphale finds it perfect. Absolutely perfect.  
Stunning.  
Alive.  
Stunningly alive.  
There’s just one problem: that only eye Crowley managed to open is terrified. He sits up so quickly he gives himself whiplash, and Aziraphale can perfectly see his features turn from scared to agonized. The pain he feels must be immense, but he doesn’t make a sound, just reaches towards the angel with claws like nails, squeezing when Aziraphale grabs his fingers. The sounds he emits then are everything but human, keening sounds that not even demons should be allowed to make. No living creature should be forced to suffer like that.  
“Crowley” The angel tries again “Crowley, dear, can you hear me?”  
One golden eye moves to Aziraphale’s face, and the demon’s mouth hangs open, fangs touching his bottom lip.  
“Az...Aziraph...” He wheezes “Wha...”  
“Shhhh dear, don’t speak. Your ribs are broken, one might have punctured a lung”  
Crowley shakes his head and gasps, one trembling hand gripping his hair. It hurts. Everything hurts so bad.  
“Should be...” He splutters “Dead. Shhhhould be dead.”  
Aziraphale does’t know what to do. He’s scared that touching Crowley will hurt him even more, but leaving him like that is not an option he’s even willing to consider.  
“Dear, that man is dead. Look at me, Crowley” He doesn’t resists, he cups Crowley’s face with one hand, careful with the bruises and the broken skin “He’s dead. You’re safe. Everything is fine”.  
Crowley shakes his head gain, gasps, again, hiccups. His eye looks so scared, his iris lost in broken vessels and blood.  
“Nnnnnot him” He manages “Not him”.  
“Who then, dear”  
Aziraphale’s thumb is caressing his face, now, skirting around wounds and scrapes. It’s so strange, that contact. So tender and full of care. He’s so not used to that, not anymore. He feels like crying. Maybe he’s crying already. Who knows.  
“Me” He chokes out “Not him. Me”.  
Aziraphale feels his head implode. It makes no sense. Crowley went to meet that man because he had to die? What the...and then he gets it.  
“It was you” He whispers “You were the expendable victim Gabriel was talking about”  
The demon’s eye widen, but it lasts just a moment: his head must be killing him, because he whimpers and falls back against the couch, crying out.  
“Ex...expendable” He repeats in a chocked whisper as Aziraphale’s fingers roam around his chest, trying to ease the pain.  
“Yes, Crowley. It’s what Gabriel said. He told me to try and save that man to steal his soul from your side, stop him from committing his first murder, but not to worry too much. The victim would have been expendable. It was you, I fear”.  
Crowley covers his face with his still functioning arm, the other one is cold and useless against his side. He feels like he’s drowning. Funny, for someone that shouldn’t even need to breathe. Such an absurd situation, he thinks. He’s giggling before he even know what he’s doing, bordering on hysterics, and his ribs hurt so much. But he can’t stop. He just can’t stop.  
“Go figure” He stammers “G-go fucking figure” And his giggles turn into sobs. It hurts even more, if possible.  
“Let me heal you, dear” He hears Aziraphale plead “We can figure everything out later. Just...please” He feels two strong arms snake around his torso “Let me heal you”.  
“Don’t worry, angel” He croaks “I’ll be dead pretty soon anyway”  
“What do you mean?”  
Aziraphale asks, and his voice sounds so worried. Crowley feels moved, really. He sighs and coughs and feels the angel’s fingers on his scalp, probing. It hurts like hell for a second until it doesn’t anymore, and Crowley heaves a huge breath. His ribs hate him so much.  
He can think so much clearly, now. But he can feel every little broken bone in his body, and thinking clearly about what’s going to happen to him isn’t exactly something he relishes.  
“I didn’t give you permission” He growls, but Aziraphale doesn’t even try to look impressed.  
“Didn’t have time to wait for it”  
Crowley huffs and looks up at the ceiling, letting the angel fuss as much as he likes. It’s not like he’s in any condition to try and stop him, anyway. He forces himself to remember what happened and fuck, he can do it all too well. The man’s hands on his body, the wooden walls pressing around his face as that filthy human pushed himself inside him, and it hurt, it hurt so much. No matters how prepared or used he was to it, it still hurt most of the times. Tempting could be funny, sometimes, even enjoyable with the right companion. But not like that. Never like that.  
He feels sick, and has just the time to ask for a bucket that he’s vomiting everything he hasn’t eaten in ages with a white knuckled grip on the metal crate Aziraphale miracled right on time. The angel snaps his fingers when he’s done, and then something absurd happens: Aziraphale sits right behind his head and starts combing his hair, sending small miracles inside his body to mend broken bones and heal every wound. Crowley feels split in two: one side of him relishes the contact, the other is scared shitless. He doesn’t want to be touched, not after what happened, and he doesn’t know how to tell Aziraphale what he wants to know. He never lied to him and has no intention of starting now, but he’s so tense he can feel his muscles grate one against each other every time he moves. The only thing he can hope for is that Aziraphale won’t ask him what happened, but he knows already it’s not going to happen. He could say that he’s fine, like he always does, but he knows that he doesn’t look fine. Fuck, he doesn’t feel fine. He doesn’t feel, full stop.  
Or, to be precise: he feels so much that he’s gone numb not to explode. Aziraphale’s fingers are still carding through his long hair and he’s...scared to death. He doesn’t fear Aziraphale’s touch per se, of course, but the touching is breaking him anyway. And it must show because Aziraphale inhales sharply and his fingers stop.  
“Crowley, you’re shaking” He says, urgent “What’s wrong, what happened?”  
Aaaaand here we are. The question he dreads more than anything at the moment. He covers his eyes with his newly healed forearm and his mind divides again: one side panics, the other is asking itself why Aziraphale sent that boy to the carpenter if he just miracled away every wound. He gnashes his teeth and feels one of his fangs pierce his bottom lip.  
“Am I hurting you?” The angel asks again “Dear, please, talk to me”  
What does it mean, hm? Answer me, tell me what happened, or just...let me hear your voice, show me you’re still here? He doesn’t know can’t comprehend, and his body keeps on betraying him. He’s vaguely aware that he’s shaking even harder than before, his whole body locked with a flight impulse he’s not following, and his mouth feels full of cotton and acid. Aziraphale is still there, though, and he need him to move. He can’t have anyone behind his shoulders right now.  
“Angel” He stammers “Angel. Please. Don’t stay behind me. I can’t see you. Please”  
Aziraphale freezes and is silent for a few moments: when Crowley blinks again he’s tucked in bed, the headrest behind his back and the angel sitting in front of him, next to his legs. He breathes better, now. He’s got something covering his back now, and the angel is in plain view. Much, much better. Safer.  
“Crowley” Aziraphale’s voice drags him back to reality “What happened to you? What do you mean when you say you should have died?”  
He can hear the fear in the angel’s voice, and is so sorry for putting it there. The truth is that he’s scared too. Even more than him, surely.  
“It was my...assignment, angel”  
“Your what?”  
Aziraphale’s eyes grow so huge to become comic. So blue, though.  
“Hell heard about your lot plan” Crowley explains twisting his wings “ Sent me to make sure he’d kill someone in the end”  
“What. Do.You.Mean.” Aziraphale growls, and it’s so strange to see the usually calm angel act like that.  
“Fuck, angel! You really want me to spell it to you? They sent me to be killed as a punishment for having slept a whole century away, Aziraphale! I even provoked him, stole his wallet to be sure! Happy now?”  
“No Crowley, I’m not!” Aziraphale screams back, blue eyes sparkling with rage “They used you to be killed, and to be ...used like that!”  
The words are just out of his mouth when he sees his mistake. Crowley tenses up and his eyes are watching him with both fear and rage.  
“How do you know that, angel?” He hisses, and his voice takes that otherworldly quality he can’t control when he’s pissed. It’s like there’s someone else inside him, someone primal, dangerous and angry,  
“I had to follow him, Crowley. It was my task”  
Aziraphale tries to explain, but it’s too late: Crowley sits up so quickly that all the angel can see is a confused blur, and a quite big patch of black scales on his back.  
“You sssssaw it” He hisses, and it’s not a question. He has managed to squeeze himself at the other end of the bed, and Aziraphale’s extended hand feels nothing but air, now.  
“No, I didn’t. I just heard you”  
Crowley’s eyes, full in serpentine, regard him trying to decide whether he should believe him or not.  
“You...you heard us” He stammers “What the fuck do you mean, angel?”  
Well, there’s really no way to hide no, right? Aziraphale takes a huge breath and closes his eyes, ready for whatever Crowley will throw at him.  
“I had to follow him to stop him from killing someone, since Heaven prohibited me to intervene otherwise” He has to stop because Crowley hisses something, and his voice is so dark it gives him the creeps, but he pushes on “I followed him inside the inn and saw him with a red haired man. I didn’t know it was you, dear. I hadn’t seen you in so long!”  
Crowley is no longer looking at him, but his eyes move to Aziraphale’s face hearing that.  
“Funny” He deadpans “I’d recognise you everywhere, even after centuries apart”  
It’s a low blow, he knows, but he’s beyond caring. Aziraphale swallows.  
“I’m so sorry” It’s barely a whisper, but the demon gets it anyway.  
“It’s ok, angel” He answers, and Aziraphale’s patience reaches its limit. It’s always the same, with Crowley. He’s always fine. He never is.  
“No, it’s not” He mutters, and it’s the calm before the storm. Crowley looks at him with one arched eyebrow.  
“It really is, Aziraphale. There’s nothing you could...”  
“Stop it!”  
There, he did it. He exploded, and it’s a sight to behold. His eyes literally fucking glow with blue light, and the air smells like ozone and lightning.  
“How dare they use you like this” He rages while Crowley looks at him, dumbfounded “How dare they force you to be defiled like that. How dare they!”  
Crowley covers his face as every window of the room explodes, glass shards battering down on them both. They turn to dust when they get too close to the angel, his anger destroying them, but Crowley is not so lucky. In hindsight, though, is the view of his bloodied arms and hands that calms Aziraphale down.  
“Good Lord” He whispers, sliding close to the demon still huddled on the bed “Crowley I’m so sorry”.  
Crowley just removes his hands from his face and takes a look around. The room is a fine mess. They’re lucky the kid isn’t back already.  
“May I touch you, dear?”  
He needs to think about it. Why should Aziraphale wants to keep on touching him, keep him close if he knows what he did? What he usually does? He feels pretty disgusting, honestly. But the angel looks worried sick, not disgusted so, in the end, he just nods. Aziraphale is careful as he heals the small cuts the rain of glass shards inflicted on him, and even more careful when he starts disentangling those blasted things from his hair.  
“I’m so sorry, dear. And don’t say it’s fine, because it isn’t” He reprimands when he sees Crowley try to interrupt him “I hurt you”.  
“Not on purpose. And it actually feels pretty good to know that you care so much about me”.  
Aziraphale doesn’t answer, dragging Crowley close to his chest to disentangle a particularly nasty shard from the mess his hair have become. He lets him rest there once he’s done.  
“I’m so sorry it happened to you, Crowley” He whispers “So very sorry.” Crowley blinks against his shirt.  
“Not your fault. Besides, I’m a tempter angel. It’s usually funnier than this.”  
“I certainly hope so. Even if it’s no excuse, dear” The angel mutters as he clears the last shards from Crowley’s shoulders and snaps his fingers, making the room spotless again. The demon sighs against his chest.  
“You should worry about what’s going to happen to me now, actually” He says, tensing “Hell won’t be happy with me. I failed. Again.”  
Aziraphale tucks Crowley’s head under his chin and keeps him there, thinking. There’s no way he’ll let them hurt him again. No. Way. He’s staying right there with him. Safe.  
“I might have a solution” He says, rocking the demon back and forth, and feels Crowley move his head to look at him. Lord, he looks so tired. He’d let him sleep for another century just to rid him of those dark circles under his eyes.  
“I’m listening” He answers, and lets his head fall against Aziraphale’s chest again.  
“You could tell them that you tempted me into killing him” He proposes “He was burned alive, and I have a flaming sword. Somewhere”.  
Crowley’s breath hitches as he starts to frantically shake his head.  
“No. No way. What the fuck. You’ll fall. Not gonna let it happen”.  
Aziraphale’s arms tighten around him: not enough to be uncomfortable, but enough to make him feel a bit safer.  
“Hush, dear. I won’t fall. Calm down and listen” There’s a hand at the nape of his neck, fingers massaging his tense muscles, and he feels so, so drained. He slumps against Aziraphale and waits.  
“I’ve been told to stop that man from killing someone, but not to worry should it happen” He casts a quick look down at the demon in his arms to check on him. Crowley’s forehead is still resting against his sternum, red hair in disarray. Crowley, expendable. No way. Should he have known he’d have acted so much differently. This demon is way better than most of the angels he knows. He won’t let anyone hurt him again.  
“So what” Crowley croaks, and Aziraphale is awoken from his reverie. He clears his throat.  
“Well, let’s just say that I found him unredeemable, and that divine justice was applied. It was contemplated”.  
The demon doesn’t look convinced, but the conversation is interrupted by Tonio, back with a stack of dark wood under his arm. He puts them down and knocks to let his presence known, even if both angel and demon had sensed him already.  
“Come in” Aziraphale calls, still keeping Crowley close. Tonio takes a look at them and doesn’t react at Crowley’s miraculous healing. He knows what his host is capable of.  
“Tonio, would you mind going to the bakery and buy something to eat?” The angel asks rifling through his pockets and handing the boy some money “Buy something for the three of us, something you like. I’ll make tea in the meantime”  
“If you need me to be gone for a while all you need to do is ask” The boy replies with a smile, and he’s gone again. Crowley huffs out a laugh at Aziraphale’s astonished face.  
“Smart kid” He mutters “Never underestimate him, angel. Could be dangerous”.  
“Oh, shut up, you” Is the answer, but there’s no bite as warm fingers start moving through his hair again. There’s still something that’s bothering him, though.  
“That man...burned?” He asks, and Aziraphale nods.  
“You don’t remember?”  
“Was a bit out of it, don’t know if you noticed”  
“I might have, yes. Want me to fill you in?”  
Does he? He’s not sure. Oh, what the Hell.  
“Sure” He shrugs, and Aziraphale adjusts his grip around him.  
“I saw you fall from the second floor” He starts with a faraway look “Saw you land on the street. You looked...dead, dear. I was so scared. Hush” He shushes, putting a fingers on Crowley’s lips and making the demon pout “If you even try to say you’re sorry I’ll be very crossed with you”.  
Crowley mutters something unintelligible, but lets him continue with a nod.  
“Then I saw you move, and that man came out of the cabin running towards you. I couldn’t let him touch you again, so I tripped him” He smiles as Crowley giggles, combing his hair with his fingers “Your hands started glowing, and the man screamed. And then he was on fire. Must have been a self defensive instinct, dear. Don’t think too much about it.”  
Crowley falls silent, stunned.  
“I can’t remember...I...all I remember is...him, forcing himself on me, stealing his wallet to make him even more mad, and then he pushed me...and I don’t know. I don’t know, angel. I...”  
He’s shaking again, eyes shiny and red, and Aziraphale thinks he might start hating Heaven and Hell both.  
“Don’t think about it, now” He soothes, kissing Crowley’s hair “It’s alright, you’re safe. We’ll both write a report that will help with this chaos and we’ll be fine. We will work it out. You’re safe”.  
He doesn’t say it’s alright, because he knows it isn’t. What happened to Crowley will take time to heal. A lot of time. Crowley sniffs and nods, but keeps still otherwise.  
“Mr Fell!” They hear from the other room “I’ve brought dinner! I can get out again if you need!”  
Crowley laughs, he can’t help it, and it feels so good even if it’s just for a short time.  
“I like the kid. Where did you find him?” He asks, half a smile on his lips. Aziraphale huffs.  
“Of course you like him, you old snake”.


	24. Like the sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was never a doubt in Crowley’s mind: he belonged to that angel, and to him only. Not to Hell, not to Satan: to Aziraphale.

I wanna hold your body  
Like the sea hold the tide

Super elastic bubble pastic - Like the sea

Just a small fluffy thing to start the year.

Crowley loves the sea because it reminds him of Aziraphale, and he loves Aziraphale more than anything. It’s just math, really, if you think about it: transitive property applied to love. Now, bear with me and I’ll try to explain.  
Angel were never really made to have an actual mind of their own: She needed help, and helpers She created. This doesn’t mean She didn’t love them. She did. Very much. She simply hadn’t built them for that.  
So, what was Aziraphale?  
A beautiful mistake, maybe. A perfect error. Crowley doesn’t know and, honestly, doesn’t even care. You don’t have to know what someone is in order to love them. Unless they’re serial killers or some ex-nazi generals, of course. Aziraphale is none of the above, so you know...Crowley simply loves him. No questions, no doubts. Thinking about it, this must be what faith is like, right? Believing in something that you know, you feel, is inherently good. No compromises and, for once, no fear. Not the kind of fear he’s used to, at least: he’s used to be scared of his kind, scared for his life, scared of being caught, of saying the wrong thing.   
In the beginning, if he has to be honest, he was scared of loving Aziraphale too. Scared of not being enough, of making him Fall. Of going to fast.  
You go to fast for me, Crowley. That phrase would be forever etched in his brain. He felt like giving up, back then. And when Aziraphale told him that they weren’t friends, weren’t even on their own side, he didn’t like him, didn0t even really know him he decided that that was it. He would stop trying, would settle for what the angel was ready and willing to give.  
And then it happened, Aziraphale crossed the border that kept him away from his supposed hereditary enemy on a wooden bench in the park. He had kissed him. Told him he loved him. Begged him for forgiveness.   
And there was nothing to forgive, not in Crowley’s eyes, but Aziraphale felt that he had hurt him for so long, and so much. And Crowley loved him for that too. Not because he was sorry, but because he cared about him so much that he was willing to ask for another chance to be with him, even if he feared he wouldn’t get it.   
There was never a doubt in Crowley’s mind: he belonged to that angel, and to him only. Not to Hell, not to Satan: to Aziraphale. To someone so different from him that, in the end was the only one to really comprehend him. The only one that was like him.   
An outcast? Maybe. Free? Well, that’s an adjective that Crowley appreciates a lot more. Alone in their own world? Oh, he dearly hoped so.   
Back to the sea, Aziraphale is currently waddling through the waves, trousers rolled up to his calves and feet in the cold water of November. Crowley is happy to let him be, sitting on the rocky beach of the Jurassic Coast in Dorset. It’s beautiful, he thinks. It really is. The cliffs look imposing from down there, and the sea is the colour of steel, clouds running wild in the sky above their heads. He’d join his angel if it were warmer, but a dip in the sea in November? No, thank you very much. Too cold for his likings.  
Aziraphale turns around then, smiling like the fucking sun that’s currently missing, and Crowley feels it all over again. He loves him so much it hurts. Loves him so much he feels like crying. All that love is still there, in a place encased between his sternum and his stomach, and pushes to get out, to explode, to be seen. You can’t express something like that with words. How could you. It would feel demeaning. It’s sacred, he thinks. Oh, it has to be, and he fears he’ll explode in thousands shards of light. So he buries his face in his hands, elbows on his knees, and tries to calm down a bit.  
“Are you alright, love?”  
Aziraphale’s there, feet miraculously dry on the beach in front of his eyes, crouching down to be at eye level, one hand on his shoulder. And Crowley jumps, taken by surprise. He turns up his face, eyes wet, and looks at him.  
His eyes have taken the same colour of the sea behind him, his hair a halo around his head and oh, Lord, he’s Heaven. Not in Heaven, Crowley doesn’t want to go there. Aziraphale is Heaven for him, and fuck them if they find it blasphemous. He gasps, throat working, and buries his face in the angel’s shirt, smelling thunder and sea breeze.  
“Angel, I love you so much” He stammers, embarrassed, and hears Aziraphale huff out a small laugh “So much” He forces his mouth to repeat.   
There’s a finger hooked under his chin, his face turns up again and there are lips on his own, salty and just a bit chapped by the sea.  
“I love you too, dear heart” Aziraphale vows against his mouth “More than anything. Even more than Her”.  
Crowley laughs, long hair whipping his face with an unexpected gust of wind.  
“You little rebel, you”.


End file.
